


Blood and Water

by alyxpoe



Series: The Youngest Holmes [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: And violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Gothic tale, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sex, Siblings, Slash, Some Fluff, drug-induced fantasies, fears, marlas, men having sex, men kissing, revenge is a dish best not served at all, trigger warning: drug-induced fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 56,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family isn't always where you find it...sometimes it finds you when you aren't even looking: A Sherlock and Cabin Pressure crossover because I want to explore the dynamics of family; this is post-Reichenbach. </p><p>Sometimes John does medically assisting ‘side jobs’ for Mycroft. He gets injured on one of those jobs and this is the story of how he finds out Sherlock’s family consists of more than just the two of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ties that Bind and Gag

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I listed to a whole bunch of episodes of Cabin Pressure and this happened.  
> One quick note: I sorta fudged ages here to fit my storyline. I'm not sorry. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some minor things poked about today to make this chapter read more smoothly.

“ **D** ouglas, have you seen our passenger?” Captain Martin Crieff jerks his thumb in the direction of the cabin behind them then rests his hands back on the steering yoke. He has just returned to the flight deck after a quick break to satisfy Mother Nature. “The poor fellow looks as if he’s been roughed up pretty badly.” At least the landing would be a smooth one today, as they are scheduled to land in London just after seven o’clock; usually airport traffic above and below is lighter earlier in the morning. An easy landing always gives the nervous captain a bit of a boost in the self-esteem department. Douglas particularly likes it when Martin is happy; of course, he would never admit that out loud.

“According to Carolyn, that _poor_ fellow, as you put it, is one Doctor John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty’s Army. I am especially sure that _you_ of all people, Martin, have heard of him.” First Officer Douglas Richardson responds with a slight smirk. In his mind he silently counts down: five, four, three, two and…

“Oh!” Martin shouts, the sound of his voice bouncing as eagerly against the inside of the flight deck as it does Douglas’ skull in a perfect imitation of their favorite airdot steward.

“Well, it only took you four seconds that time.” Douglas lays one finger alongside his nose; his brown eyes glimmer with mischief. He tilts his head and raises one eyebrow in Martin’s direction.

Martin just sits still so he can be stunned for a moment. He takes his time reviewing each and every single word that Douglas has said to him in the past three minutes. “How did _you_ know?”

Douglas knows full well that Martin is not exactly asking the question he _believes_ he is. With a weary sigh, he answers the captain. “Martin, I do occasionally read a newspaper; there is also this new thing out there called, oh, I don’t know, _The Internet_.” He turns his head towards the captain as he speaks drolly, gleefully taking in the dumbfounded look on Martin’s face that is made even more cartoonish by the faint wash of pink under the younger man’s freckles.

Douglas laughs then, a hearty belly-laugh that threatens to shake GERTI apart at the seams or at least just shake their seats.  

“Douglas, come on. It really isn’t _that_ funny.” Martin frowns and makes like he is staring straight ahead so hard his eyes are going to cross; of course the fact that it is one in the morning, trying in vain to act like as if he is concentrating with all his might on properly guiding the aircraft through the dark sky ends up just making him look goofier than usual.

Richardson snorts and stands up. “Can you handle it all for a few moments? I need to use the little officer’s loo.” They both know he is lying, but long association with one another keeps Martin from calling him out on it. He takes two steps towards the cabin then turns back. “Actually, intense scrutiny of your instruments would have been more effective, captain.” Douglas’ parting shot makes Martin snort.

“Yeah, sure.” Martin mumbles towards the windshield.  After Douglas is gone, he flicks on the auto pilot then whips off his hat and runs his hands through his ginger curls (it helps him think) he wonders how in _the_ world he is going to have _this_ incredibly uncomfortable conversation with someone he has known for going on three years (and managed to keep this particular fact about himself secret); because how can it be otherwise when a pretty-much world-renown Lazurus-like consulting detective is one’s older half brother?

*

Douglas checks the end of the aisle to see that their steward, Arthur, is still curled up in one of the rear seats asleep.The only sounds are the rumble of GERTI's engines and Arthur's light snores. He gives himself a second to wonder how a man that is 6'5" tall, and by no means lanky in build, can scrunch himself up to fit so comfortably in such a small space that he is sleeping like the dead. But then again, this is the man who prefers to sleep on the floor when the three of them are forced to share a tiny hotel room. He shrugs and turns towards their passenger.

“Doctor Watson? Or do you prefer ‘Captain?’” Douglas asks as he approaches the blond man who is slumped down into the leather bomber jacket he is wearing with his arms wrapped around a very old and very olive drab canvas bag. John’s eyes are closed and he cracks one of them, well, really the only one he can because the other one is so badly blackened that it is swollen shut. Dried blood is smeared across his cheek and his hair is matted and dirty. Even as he is a complete picture of exhaustion and misery, he still manages a weak smile in the first officer’s direction.

John opens his mouth to speak and only manages a rough squeak. He clears his throat. “Good morning?” He queries in a barely-above-a-whisper tone.

“Indeed it is, just past one in the morning, to be precise.” Douglas settles down in the seat next to John, immediately taking a liking to this person he has read about. He considers offering a hand to shake, but the way John is curled around the bag, it is probably not a good idea to force him to break his personal bubble, which truly does appear to be all that is holding him up at the moment.

John contemplates the tall, stout man who sits down at his side. About forty five years old, steel grey hair, broad shoulders, and brown eyes that are looking at him as if the other man really wants to ask a question John knows instinctively that he is going to hate. “Just get on with it.” He croaks. He has really never gotten used to the part of his life that gets swept up in every part of the perfect storm that is the brothers Holmes.

Douglas clears his throat. “Well, you see, I, uh…” He frowns at himself. Douglas Richardson is _never_ at a loss for words. This is ridiculous; he is not some thirteen-year-old girl! He closes his eyes for a second then nods. “Doctor Watson, let me start by saying it is an honor to meet you.”

John’s good eye widens in shock. Yeah, that is not what he was expecting. He silently nods back.

“Then I would love to tell you that your blog has been just as entertaining the past few months as it was before that stunt that _he_ pulled. I’ve especially enjoyed the way you described the old woman in the feathery hat whose prize goat was kidnapped…” Douglas trails off and snaps his mouth shut when he notices the searing energy emanating from the deep blue eyes of Doctor Watson. He decides he is never mentioning this to Martin. Ever. Chomping down on one's foot is _not_ made any easier by sharing the information; not in the least.

John’s hoarse voice manages to be both icy and warm at the same time. “I appreciate that, I really do.” There is something more simmering under the surface, however. He swallows and it is only then that Douglas notices the deep bruising between John’s neck and his collar bones. Good God, what has happened to this man? And where is the object of said blog?

John has closed his eye and is resting his head against the back of the seat. Douglas decides that it is probably best to leave the good doctor to his rest. He gently pats John’s shoulder; even so he does not miss it when the other man winces from even the lightest pressure. “We will talk later.” John nods at his slowly retreating form, grateful to be left alone for a little while.

“Martin, why didn’t you ever tell me about this part of your extended family?” Richardson asks as he picks up the headset, sitting it cock-eyed across his head so that one ear is uncovered. He scans the instruments closely; nothing unusual, then he stares out the windshield for a bit and decides that darkness upon more darkness is pretty boring. Of course, there are things to  _do_ in the dark that aren't so dull... Martin’s deep sigh pulls his attention back to the captain.

“It is a really really long story, Douglas, and it will probably bore you to death.”

Douglas looks down at his watch. “We have about five and one half hours, captain, so start talking.”

Martin shakily sighs again, resigned to his fate. Well, it’s better than a word game he can’t win, anyway. “Douglas, let me tell you, firstly, that the reason I never told you about Holmes and Watson is simply because I _couldn’t_.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, _sir_.” Douglas smirks.

“No, really, Douglas, you don’t understand. There was a gag order several years ago…”

Douglas is completely blown away by the story. So much so, in fact, that he says absolutely nothing for the next two hours until Martin’s story is paused when Arthur arrives with hot coffees for them, the younger man’s brown hair a disheveled mess from sleeping against a passenger seat.

“No way, Skip! You are related to Sherlock Holmes?” Arthur’s exuberance threatens to wake up the dead people at the cemetery they are flying over, though none of them are aware of that fact.

Douglas knows that it is not still possible for John to be asleep in the cabin after that loud outburst, so he sits back to watch and wait for the inevitable. According to Martin, there is a great possibility that John knows about as much about Sherlock’s half-brother as Martin knows about John.

Exactly squat.

Douglas smiles at a frowning Martin and practically fan-girling Arthur over the rim of his coffee that is surprisingly both hot and tasty today. At least the next few hours are shaping up to be anything but dull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I've made a huge mistake, thank you dear readers for not being jerks about it. All fixed now(I hope!)


	2. Strong Side

Marie Daniels is standing with one hip resting against the open door of the glossy black sedan and trying valiantly not to be bored out of her mind. Her mobile phone dings, so she scoops it out of the pocket of the black blazer she is still unused to wearing. Marie flicks the button on the phone that lights up the screen then quickly reads the simple text message.

_ETA: fifteen minutes. Deliver the cargo directly to mine. MH._

Marie always wants to laugh at the terse, spy versus spy type messages her boss sends out; she does not laugh but she does smile a little then adjusts her black pencil skirt, carefully smoothing out any wrinkles that have appeared during her vigil. Her blue eyes scan the terminal from the entry doors to the emergency exits and back. She is seriously considering perching on the still warm bonnet and kicking off the uncomfortable black pumps when her phone rudely dings again.

_There may be extra packages as we discussed earlier. They are all to be delivered simultaneously, regardless of other arguments. M._

Marie nods her head as if her boss is beside her. Somewhere in this airport there will be a camera pointed at her at some point, so it is best to be professional at all times. She shifts on her feet a bit in an attempt to relax tired muscles and ease the stifling aggravation of wearing panty hose but instead only ends up making it all worse. She sighs and thinks about how much she really misses being in the field. Lying on the ground behind the scope of a high-powered weapon sure beats waiting around for…

Bing!

_Marie, this is only temporary. Give yourself time. MH_

Good God, how does he do that? Sometimes he is so irritating! She has to admit he is right, though. She relaxes again as she receives another text message.

_Thank you, it is important to me that I have team members I can trust. MH_

Something heavy and cold in Marie’s chest just became a little lighter. She laughs out loud just as two men come through the exit doors, only one of which she recognizes. Doctor Watson is walking very slowly and leaning on a red-haired man’s arm. Marie knows that he has been injured; otherwise she would not be here in the first place. Apparently her security has been recently upgraded to allow for the care and feeding of a various amounts of Holmes family members. She really ought to write a book: _Care and Feeding of the Holmes Family: For Dummies!_ Ha! Keep them warm, make them think they are in control (always) and never, ever feed them after midnight. It would be a best seller in no time!

Marie stubbornly pulls herself back to the job at hand because John and the other man are now climbing into the back seat of the sedan. Doctor Watson curls down into the seat, seeming to fold in on himself. The other man, however, when he sees that his companion is comfortable, takes a long look at Marie from the top of her head to the bottom of her shoes. She is not uncomfortable with this type of scrutiny, far from it. She gives it right back, gazing down at his black wingtips and up his uniform trousers, jacket with gold stripes on the sleeves and then into his clear green eyes. Suddenly they are gone, staring down at the hat in his lap.

Marie Daniels has seen many things in her twenty-five years of life, including things she does and does not ever want to see again. Those eyes? The ones so full of both curiosity and a little tad of bashfulness? She thinks she could look into them forever.

On the other hand, she knows a Holmes when she sees one and since the other two are, well, not exactly interested in women, she has a pretty good idea about this one too—ginger curls and freckles and all. She gives them a curt nod, noting that Doctor Watson seems practically comatose. Marie opens the drivers’ side door and slides into the seat, turning the heat on in the backseat and pushing the button to raise the barrier between the front and back seats. She starts the car but before she pulls away from the airport, she taps out a text message.

_Cargo is safe and ready for delivery. At least one appears to need special handling. ETA: 2 hours._

Marie has never picked up the rather fussy habit of signing her initials or name or anything after a text message, thinking that the number showing above the little thought bubble should be good enough. She drops the phone on the passenger seat to make it close enough to hear but too far away to grab for if it does ring, fastens her seatbelt and guns the big V-8 motor as she flies out of the lot and into the early-morning traffic.

 

*

Martin notices Marie staring at him. He ducks his head to avoid her spotting him blushing just before the barrier is raised between the seats. John is already asleep again, still clutching the bag in his lap as if it is a lifeline. Martin has no idea where they are going, though he has a pretty good reason to suspect his eldest half-sibling is probably going to be the light at the end of this tunnel. Following John’s example, he rests his head against the seat and closes his eyes, letting memories from the past few hours wash over him. It does not take long for him to be back aboard GERTI in his mind.

“No way, Skip! You are related to Sherlock Holmes?”

After Arthur had exuberantly exclaimed his discovery of Martin’s almost non-existent relationship to his half brothers, it took less than five minutes for John to shoulder his way into the cockpit. Martin remembers turning around in his seat to see the man gazing at him through one eye, his hands crossed over his chest in clear warning that anyone insulting Sherlock would have to deal with him. Martin is instantly fascinated, disgusted and completely gobsmacked all in the space of ten seconds. When he turns to look at Douglas, the first officer has a wicked smirk pasted on his face, almost as if he knew how this exact scene would play out as if he were the director calling the shots.

“Douglas?” Martin remembers asking meekly. He knows full well he is completely shocked as he only knew of John Watson from the family rumor mill, having spent the majority of his adult life pretty much living under a rock as far as ‘popular press’ was concerned.

Douglas shrugs his shoulders like he’s going to start an argument, however, he smiles warmly at the captain and introduces the two men as if he has known Doctor Watson his whole life. “Doctor John Watson, this is Captain Martin Crieff. Captain Crieff, Doctor John Watson.”

Martin holds out a shaking hand, hoping beyond hope that maybe John is too exhausted to recognize the resemblance. As always, Martin’s luck does not hold out. John’s hand is firm and Martin is captivated by the baby blue that is peering into his soul. In that moment, if no one else has ever known, he is fully aware of exactly who John Watson is to Sherlock.

John says absolutely nothing, however he does not take his eyes from Martin’s face, as even under the spray of freckles and captain’s hat, the shape of Martin’s green eyes, his mouth and the razor-sharp cheekbones is a resemblance too close for coincidence, even through one eye. As if anyone who works with police and detectives on a daily basis even believes in coincidence anymore.

“He never told me.” John rasps.

“It is good to finally get to meet you.” Martin mumbles simultaneously.

John cocks his head and studies the captain. Douglas mutters something to Arthur about needing a break and reaches over Martin to flip the auto-pilot switch then marches the steward off the flight deck and into the cabin.

“Um.” Martin says. He clears his throat. “Have a seat?”

“Don’t mind if I do. I am pretty much at the end of my rope.” John pointedly looks down at himself before he takes the offered seat.

“Hold on a second.” Martin presses the button for the intercom and requests a clean damp flannel from Arthur. Arthur is back in the cockpit practically before Martin has finished speaking; the big man gracefully bouncing on the balls of his feet. In one hand he is carrying the requested flannel, in the other a steaming mug of tea. John thanks him and uses the rag to wipe his face and hands then flips it over so that when he gives it back to the steward, Arthur is touching only the cleanest side. Martin is impressed with John’s consideration.

“Ta.” He holds the steaming mug towards Arthur in a toast and takes a cautious sip. Arthur beams at him and literally skips from the cockpit. Martin glances down at the instrument panel, carefully noting everything that is happening with the aircraft. After a little while, he asks John how the flight has been so far and is rewarded with a positive answer. The two of them talk at length and Martin, like his brother, is as drawn to the radiance of John’s strong personality, even underneath his injuries and mantle of utter exhaustion.

Too soon it is time to land in London. Douglas has returned and is standing behind Martin’s seat, strangely not kicking John out of his own, which Martin finds to be quite intriguing: it’s almost like offering respect to a higher-ranking officer. John turns away from the windshield where he has been watching the morning turn from black velvet to sapphire and makes to stand, but Martin has one more question for him.

“John, please, if I could ask…” Martin’s words seem to echo about the flight deck. John waits calmly, watching him closely through his good eye. “How is my brother?” His voice is much less controlled than he wanted it to be. “I mean, there is obviously a reason that you are here and he is, well, not here, and I’m sorry if I am asking too much and there is some reason you can’t tell me, because after all I’m sure that our oldest brother has something to do with you being here and the shape you are in….I mean, um, not that you are in bad shape but the injuries and….and I am just going to shut up now.”

Martin can feel the blood red blush that he knows starts from his collar to his forehead and wants nothing more at that moment than to hide underneath his seat, preferably underneath his hat. Form behind him, Douglas lightly rests one hand on the captain's shoulder.

John gives him a weary smile. “Martin, I wish I could answer that honestly, but the truth is that I really don’t know. We had a bit of a, well, argument and he walked out.” John’s eye closes and his face knots up with what Martin is sure an attempt to keep from crying. “I have not spoken to him in three months.”

Oh god. “I am sorry.” Martin stammers. John just nods at him and then Douglas and slips back towards his seat in the cabin.

“I didn’t know.” Martin whispers. Douglas now pats his shoulder then reclaims his own seat on Martin's right.

“Martin, it is absolutely none of my business whatsoever, however, when we land I think it may be worth your while to go poking your nose into family business.” Douglas offers with a kind expression on his face. He studies the younger man closely before turning back to the instrument panel.

Martin says nothing and spends the remainder of the flight deep in thought, only communicating with Douglas when absolutely necessary. The landing is unremarkable and soon enough Martin finds himself in the back seat of a posh sedan driven by a nice-looking brunette with eyes like Damascus steel, seated beside the man he is pretty sure is so in love with his brother that the rhythm of the beating of his heart probably sounds like Sherlock’s name.

*

“Martin, what are you doing here?” John twists in the seat to look up at him when the car comes to a stop.

Martin fiddles with his hat and rubs the back of his neck. He sighs. “Honestly, Doctor Watson, I really don’t know.” He begins to rattle on about what Douglas said to him about _family business_ ; instead he turns towards the creaky sound of John's voice.

“John. Just call me John. It was fine a few hours ago and it was fine now. Besides, you are family.”

“Sure, John. You just seemed…I don’t know. Like you need someone on your side, you know? I have a feeling I know where you are going and…” Martin opens the car door to find that they are not parked outside some posh manor, but are idling on the curb of a busy street in the middle of London. “Uh, where are we?” It only occurs to Martin as he looks out the window that John just called him _family_. He looks at the older man and is sure his expression is one of shock. 

John gives him a weak grin as he sees Martin catch up with the conversation and gets out of the car. When Martin has joined him, he says simply: “Home." He shoulders his old pack and heads towards the door. Martin has no choice but to follow him.


	3. Special Handling

_Why are you dropping the packages off at Baker Street? –MH_

Marie really cannot hold in the laugh that bursts forth from her chest when she reads the newest text message from her boss. She gets out of the driver’s seat and looks around for the closest camera. Spying it, she cocks her eyebrows and puts one hand on her hip before holding up her phone and jabbing out a message.

_I do believe I mentioned one needed special handling. Well, I handled it my way._

The blatantly unwritten part of the message being _if you don’t like it, fire me._ Of course, he would do no such thing, but the game was fun to play nonetheless.

_Then you can remain in the vicinity. –MH_

Marie nods in the direction of the camera, childishly sticking her tongue out at the given order. She closes the door, presses the ‘all lock’ button on the key fob and crosses the pavement to enter the flats of 221. Before she can turn the knob, the door opens and Marie is met with the welcoming smile of Mrs. Hudson, who quickly invites her in for tea. Marie gives her a smile, thankful for the break. Neither of the men upstairs will be able to leave the building without her or Mycroft’s knowledge.

*

Martin follows John up the seventeen steps to the landing in front of the door that John unlocks quickly. He drops his bag just inside the doorway where it hits the floor with a clatter then chucks his jacket in the general direction of one of the hooks. It misses the hook by a mile and hits the floor with a whump. Martin’s scandalized expression is hidden from John because the doctor is already on his way towards the kitchen. Martin grabs the heavy bomber jacket that costs more than he usually spends on groceries in a month and then some and hangs it up carefully, almost reverentially. The days in Britain have been reasonably warm for early spring, so wherever John has been prior to his flight with MJN must have been chilly.

“Martin, tea?” John roughly calls from the kitchen.

Martin lets go of the jacket like he has been stung. He is going to pretend that he was absolutely not caressing the soft, supple leather out of anything but curiosity. Absolutely not. His fingertips linger one more time on the soft fur-like collar before finally letting go. “Uh, yes, please.” He makes his way through the rather cramped sitting room—the floors and walls are literally covered with papers, books, and empty coffee mugs. Those have to be Sherlock’s,because if Martin's memory of his brother serves him well, one of Sherlock's outstanding physical features besides his eyes and hair has always been his big hands; and so there’s no way his brother is wrapping those big paws around dainty little tea cups, and John does not seem too fussy about such details, either. “That jacket is really something, John.”

Entering the kitchen, he finds that he is correct in his assumption about the tea. John is sitting at the table rubbing his forehead with his fingers, a white mug with some type of military emblem on it in front of him. John points towards the counter where another clean mug and a box of tea bag rests. Martin pours hot water from the kettle on the hob into the cup after dropping in a bag, and then mixes in two spoons full of sugar.

“Sorry there’s no milk.” John mumbles from behind his hands. “And thank you about the jacket. It was a gift from Sherlock last Christmas.”

Martin pulls out a chair and takes a sip. “Well, it is beautiful.” Martin sighs a bit wistfully. “Also, no need to worry about milk, John. I travel too much to be prickly about it. I’ve more gratitude about the fact that it is hot and remotely even tastes like _tea_ …” He laughs a little, a strained sound.

John nods, resting his right hand on the table top and taking a sip of his own steaming beverage. Though he is looking directly at Martin, his torn expression is suddenly turned inward a million miles away. Martin’s heart actually breaks a little.

“John, I’m really no good at this kind of thing…but I would certainly be willing to listen if you want to talk about…uh, about Sherlock…” Martin offers, tripping on his own tongue.

Once again, John nods into his tea. He takes a long drink before setting the cup back down and making a soft noise in his throat that Martin takes to be either a sigh or perhaps the physical aspect that comes when swallowing down deep emotions.

“Yeah, I do need to talk about it, without a doubt.” John genuinely likes Martin. For all of Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s bold confidence and all about peacock-ness, there is something comforting in the youngest Holmes brother’s genuine caring and anxiousness about himself. John pulls his phone out of his pocket, desperately hoping for some word from his estranged partner. His face falls a little when he sees there has been nothing-not even a one-word text message. The clock reads nine fifteen.

“I am starting to get the feeling that something has happened to Sherlock, Martin. We have had arguments in the past and one of us has walked out—we both know the value of cooling off after heated words—but this is _wrong_. I can’t believe he’d just walk away like this, with no word. Nothing.”

John shakes his head, his expression breaking down and giving in to a deep sorrow that Martin can only partially understand. “He always did have an almost obsessive need to get the last word.” He chuckles and immediately covers his mouth with one hand; which of course is the hand that was holding his tea. The mug tips and tea runs everywhere.

“Oh god! I’m so sorry!” Martin scans the kitchen, desperately trying to find something to mop up the mess.

“Martin! Martin, its fine…in that drawer right there.” John points.

Martin does not risk saying anything else, instead, he reaches in and pull out a small blue kitchen towel to clean up his mess. He is embarrassed and tries to hide it behind his fringe by keeping his face down. 

For his part, John knows instinctively when to back off. Martin is so worked up now that helping him or stopping him would make it worse.

Martin cleans up his mess and tosses the sopping towel into the sink. He returns to the chair and fiddles with the now empty mug. His face feels entirely too hot so he keeps his eyes down on the cup.

“Martin, it’s no big deal. Trust me. You don’t even want to know the messes this table has seen.” John says, trying to lighten the tension in the room. Martin raises his head and cracks a small grin. For all of his worries, that small change in expression is enough for John.  “Has anyone ever told you how much the two of you are alike?”

Martin laughs. “Yeah, when we were younger, Mycroft called us peas-in-a-pod.”

“You’re kidding?” John smiles weakly, the action causing a small bit of pain when the skin around his black eye pulls.

“No.” Martin wants to tell John _everything_ , and that is a strange feeling for him. “John, I feel like I should just sit here and unburden myself to you, but I’m wondering if I’m the right man for the job.”

 “Well, it seems right now you are the _only_ man for the job.” John stands, hooks both mugs on his fingers and places them in the sink. He scratches at his head. “Right now, though, I desperately need a wash.” He grimaces at the feeling of grit and dried blood under his fingers. “Let me show you where the remote is and you can hang out here while I shower, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” Martin slips out of his uniform jacket and hangs it neatly over the back of the kitchen chair. John hands him the television remote and he idly flips through several channels, listening to the inane chatter and the running water at the same time. He is tired from the late night/early morning flight, so within minutes he finds himself lulled to sleep by such simple domestic background noise.

When John comes out of the bathroom, he is surprised to see that Martin is true to his word about making himself at home. He is fully stretched out on Sherlock’s sofa, though his feet just barely reach the arm rest, whereas Sherlock usually has to bend his knees in order to drum his always busy toes against it. John’s headache is starting to turn into a dull throb and the swelling around his black eye is down enough that he can almost open it all the way, so he is seeing Martin with both eyes truly for the first time. Even in sleep, the brothers’ appearances are uncanny. Martin’s uniform trousers are ill-fitting, almost as if the man is unaware of his own weight loss; and, lying down flat, the legs have pulled up over his ankle to display his worn black socks, one of which has a hole at the heel.

John reaches over the back of the sofa to haul up the old blanket that hangs there and pulls it over the sleeping captain. He makes up his mind in that second to take care of yet another person and his heart aches a little more for the degrees of separation between himself and the one person he really wants to see.

In a few hours, after they have both had some rest, they will be able to talk more about all of this. John is finding that he enjoys Martin’s company; it seems that both of them need someone to reach out to.

*

As it is said about the best laid plans of mice and men, John’s relaxing day is blown to smithereens when he wakes to the silky voice of Mycroft Holmes drawling through the air of the flat. He groans and rolls over, thoroughly not wanting to deal with the eldest Holmes at the moment. Maybe if he pretends to go back to sleep, Mycroft will go away.

“John, I can hear you thinking from in here. Might as well come in and chat for a bit, hmmm. I need your report from the past several days anyway, so two birds, one stone?” Mycroft’s posh voice is not raised a single decibel, yet John hears him quite clearly over the thrumming in his skull. He sighs loudly and as dramatically as any Holmes and climbs out of bed. Getting dressed is slow going as muscles that were only sore are now growing stiff with the lactic acid build up and fatigue of the past few days. John grumbles to himself until he is relatively civilized in an old tee shirt and soft cotton trousers. It will just have to do. He pads through to the bathroom to make himself slightly more presentable.

In the kitchen, Martin and Mycroft are sharing a plate of chocolate biscuits. Martin is drinking coffee and Mycroft has a cup of tea in front of him. John eyes the dainty china cup warily. “Mrs. Hudson.” He mumbles.

“Indeed.” Mycroft answers. No need to burden John with the fact that Maria is downstairs enjoying the older woman’s hospitality by lounging about on her couch with a romance novel given to her by Mrs. Hudson herself; all on Mycroft’s dime, of course, because Maria apparently knew that John would prefer to go home. Anyway, the doctor has always been a bit prickly about personal surveliance, so there is no good reason to mention it just now. “John…”

“Mycroft, cut through the bullshit please. I am tired, my face hurts, hell, my whole bloody body hurts. I’ve just been able to open this eye and no, I still haven’t heard from Sherlock. Apparently, you know Martin well but for some reason, you utter jackass,” John uses his favorite American slur picked up from fellow soldiers in the Middle East as he steps right up into Mycroft’s space and goes nose to nose with the taller man, a feat only possible with Mycroft sitting down and only possible with John Watson. Anyone else would have already dropped to the floor with a bullet in their brain.

John knows it, too, so he pushes just a little bit farther. “And since you or your stubborn git of a baby brother never bothered to tell me _Oh, hey, John there’s actually_ three _of us, so be on the lookout_ well, now I’ve met Martin and there is a whole bunch of things I need to hear from your fucking mouth, Mycroft, so hurry up and say them and then you can get the hell out of my house.” John turns away from him to busy himself with the kettle, which he promptly drops loudly back onto the stove and opens the refrigerator door to come back with a cold bottle of lager. He sits down, smashes the bottle against his black eye for a moment and then cracks it open, swallowing down a third in one go.

Martin just stares at John with his jaw hanging open. He really wants to jump up and fist pump, all the while screaming “yes” but since he is, number one, very intimidated by his much older half-brother, and two, well, very much British, he stays put but is unable to control the way his eyes widen and his face turns beet red.

John looks down into the bottle then turns his attention to Martin. He cracks a big grin at the poor man. Martin blushes even more and decides that the top of the table is the most interesting thing in the room at the moment, though he does smile, too.

Mycroft just looks bored with the whole thing. He rolls his eyes and fiddles with the umbrella propped against the arm of the chair. Sometimes between John and Sherlock it is like having a couple of teenagers around! Now adding one more into the mix, well, they say the more the merrier.

John stares at Mycroft, trying hard not to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind, but the stress of the past three months weighs him down and is now backed with a healthy dose of alcoholic courage at one o clock in the afternoon. “Go ahead, Mycroft, you have the floor. Start by explaining why you have to _constantly_ keep tabs on Sherlock, yet poor Martin there is looking at you like you are a mirage.”

Of course, Mycroft picks up on John’s unspoken tirade that mostly certainly has more to do with Martin’s half-starved appearance than lack of knowledge on John's side. A wee stab of guilt takes root in the base of Mycroft’s brain and he has to fight himself from taking a deep gulp in front of John. Without saying anything, he picks his phone from his trouser pocket and fires off a text. He smirks, cocks an eyebrow at John and waits for the understanding to dawn between them.

Many years of living, loving, and working alongside Sherlock have given John a tiny insight to the workings of his mind, and luckily this time he understands Mycroft’s unspoken message very, very well. Apparently an oversight in the way of his baby-baby brother has just been corrected. John nods his thanks, even if Martin will never be aware of it, John feels like gratitude is necessary.

“Oh god, you can do that, too? I never could get it when they would do that, all those eyebrow quirks and half-smiles. God, John, you must be one of those people who can read minds. What do they call them? Teleports? No, that’s not right. Um? Oh, I know! Telepaths!” Martin’s arm jerks just above his coffee mug.

John smiles at him as he runs off at the mouth and casually reaches over to pull the cup out of the way of Martin’s flailing hand.

Mycroft offers an indulgent smile in Martin’s direction as well. John is glad to see it, as it gives him somewhere to begin. Since no one has been able to track Sherlock, not even Mycroft and his plethora of minions, John decides then and there that it is time for some truths to come to light.

“So, tell me about Martin, Mycroft.” John says warmly in a tone that brooks no argument.

Mycroft decides to indulge for a little while, if for no other reason that it will keep John from worrying about Sherlock for a few moments. Mycroft actually has some idea where his brother might be, and, if he has planted the correct information in the right places it should be no more than two hours before the case is split wide open.

“Martin, would you like to begin?” Mycroft asks across the table.

“Well, I’ve already told him that I was born when Sherlock was three and you were ten. I never really got to spend too much time with Mycroft, John, but I can tell you about Sherlock.”

John nods and opens his second bottle. He holds it out towards Martin who shakes his head. He intentionally does not offer one to Mycroft.

“Let me see if I have this straight. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time, so please, Mycroft, correct me if I am wrong.” Martin finishes the last of his coffee, silently wondering how the cup got so far away from him. He shrugs a little and returns to his story. “Mycroft’s dad was named George Tiberius Edwards. He was married to their mother, Rose Winward, and died when Mycroft was very young.”

“Correct, Martin. I was four.” Mycroft supplies. John nods to show he is listening, though both of the other men can see him hanging on every word.

“She remarried not too long after that, as George was quite a bit older than Rose. The man she remarried, Sieger Charles Holmes is mine and Sherlock’s father. I don’t know why I know their middles names, but I do. Anyway, Rose was killed in an accident when Sherlock was two years old. Sieger remarried my mom, Wendy Crieff, and I was born really very shortly afterward. It was a big scandal at the time, I found out later, because there is not nine months in between the time Sieger married my mom and I was born.” Martin speaks easily, no trace of nervousness in his words.

“I have looked into it deeply, Martin. Sieger did not kill Rose, it really was an accident, however, it is an obvious fact that Sherlock’s father had been sleeping with your mother before Rose was killed.” Mycroft adds.

“I always thought as much, but it really didn’t matter to us, ever. Sherlock and I grew up reasonably close since we were so close in age. It was only after Sieger left after Sherlock was shipped off to boarding school that he and I literally drifted apart. I took Mom’s maiden name and well, here I am now a thirty five year old airdot captain.” Martin dips his head towards the table as his bashfulness returns full force. He wants to ask Mycroft when he became a Holmes, but cannot quite figure out how to phrase the question so it does not sound idiotic.

“Airdot? I heard you say that earlier, Martin. What in the world does it even mean?” John asks as he tosses the empty bottle into the rubbish bin before Martin can form his question into words.

Martin laughs. “My boss, Carolyn, she calls it an air _dot_ because to be a true air _line_ , the company would need more than one plane.”

John grins. “That is funny.” He frowns a bit, though, as he takes apart the rest of Martin’s statement. “Seriously, though, why do you say you are the captain like it’s a bad thing?”

Mycroft answers for him. “He believes because he took his pilots’ test seven times that it makes him a failure.”

“Are you kidding?” John queries.

“No.” Martin answers in a small voice.

“Martin, doctors who graduate the lowest levels of medical school can still sign ‘MD’ after their names. From what I can tell, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, look at Sherlock! The man invented his own job and spent several years proving to everyone within earshot that such a thing exists.” John is smiling now, thinking about the very first conversation he had with the consulting detective.

“John, you really don’t understand. I love flying, but it is really more of a hobby than a career. My actual job is helping people move their possessions from one place to another…”

“What do you mean?” John is beginning to think two beers this early in the afternoon on an empty stomach is a bad idea.

Mycroft studies John closely as Martin starts to answer. When the words come, however, they are from a much more familiar voice than the one sitting to John’s right.

“What he is saying is that he does not get paid to fly.” Sherlock’s deep voice booms from the doorway as the door itself crashes into the wall.

At that moment, the two beers rush to John’s head and he foolishly attempts to do two things simultaneously. He stands up from the table so quickly that his blood pressure drops as he tries to rush towards Sherlock who just does not _look_ right and only succeeds in tripping over his own feet, which results in a pretty good knock to the head as he hits it against the table. The second thing he tries to do, which involves calling Sherlock as many names as possible and/or snogging him senseless pretty much falls by the wayside as he passes out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N: John’s jacket: http://www.mrporter.com/product/373912?cm_mmc=ProductSearch-_-us-_-Coats_and_Jackets-_-GSR&gclid=COq3n72DtrsCFdE-MgodfFYA2Q


	4. Partnerships

Douglas Richardson knows he is in love. That is to say that the First Officer of MJN Air thinks he is in real, heart-pounding, see the face of the one you are falling for and get a dry mouth kind of love. He rolls his shoulders in an effort to work out the kinks from napping on the sofa half the day. Down days are always rough on people who are accustomed to being constantly on the alert, and even co-piloting an aeroplane is difficult and often stressful, of that there is no doubt. There are days when the flying is easy, the sky a pristine blue and the wind is the hand of a generous goddess to and from their destination; to Douglas, that is the most perfect definition of _love_ he can come up with.

But, and he tells himself that this is a big one, when the object of your affection has been beside you virtually every day for the past two years, and you have yet to say a single word about it to them: well, that alone seems to add to both the stress and the joy of being in the air.

Of course, he knows this whole thing may simply be infatuation. At his age, he has been there; pretty much done _that_ to, well, pretty much anything and everything. In his near five decades of life he’s had scores of girlfriends, three wives, and several part-time boyfriends but never really a _partner_ , someone who will be beside him in everything that he is and everything that he does. He stretches out, enjoying the soft leather of his sofa as it cradles him, so much more comfortable than the seat on GERTI, but lacking one critical component.

Martin.

Captain Martin Crieff, pilot, friend, and perhaps something more, at least in Douglas’ mind anyway. Douglas sighs and grabs the television remote from the arm of the sofa, absent-mindedly pushing buttons until the screen flares to life. He tries to pay attention to the overblown idiocy happening on it but is thankfully given the excuse to himself to turn it off when his phone rings from in the kitchen.

Douglas answers it, wondering how in the world Martin manages to sound so lost for words yet tongue-tied at the same time.

*

“Hi Douglas, hope you aren’t busy. If you _are_ busy I could call back later but I really can’t because I need someone to talk to and I was really hoping I could talk to you.” Martin blurts out before Douglas has the chance to finish saying ‘hello.’

“Sure, Martin, but please tell me your lungs are still functioning in between all of that.” Douglas drawls, though his voice down the line is warm rather than as irritated as he tries to make it sound.   

Martin takes a deep breath as he runs a hand through his hair. He looks up from the sofa to ascertain that John and Sherlock are still in the bedroom with the door closed. If he listens hard he can hear the thunderous orchestra of a deep, rolling baritone mixed with an exasperated tenor and the occasional drumming thump of the palm of someone’s hand smacking against the closed door, most likely in order to mark salient points during the argument. Those sounds have brought back memories Martin was so sure he had buried, forcing him to reach out to the one person he thought might be able to understand.

“I’m really not sure where to begin. Apparently Sherlock has been missing for three months. Mycroft was here today after John and I took a nap…that isn’t to say we took a nap _together_ , I was on the couch here and John was in the bedroom…he was so tired, Douglas. I wasn’t sure what to do for him." Martin pauses to gasp like he is drowning. He continues more slowly. "Never mind that now, though, we were having a bit of tea with Mycroft and Sherlock just…well, I don’t even know how to describe it….” Martin trips over his own tongue to trail off as if forgetting he is holding a phone in his hand at all. His eyes close and he sags wearily against the couch; it has all been so much for one day.

“Martin?” Douglas calls from his end.

Martin snaps back into himself. “I’m sorry, Douglas, I’m sure you think this whole thing is utterly ridiculous. I’ll just go and leave you to your day off.” He starts to push the ‘end’ button but Douglas’ loud voice makes him put the phone back to his ear.

“NO!”

“Oh. You really don’t mind then?” Martin queries, unsure of how far to push past the invisible line, the one that stands between them like the console between their pilots' seats in front of the instrument panel in the cockpit.  

“No, I don’t mind. Really. I’ve just basically been lazing about since I got home, anyway. What is happening there?”

Martin sits back against the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table and switches the television off. “I honestly don’t know. Just, you know, my brother back there having an argument with his presumed significant other behind the closed door….” He ungracefully trips over his tongue.

“Martin, I’ll be there in three hours.”

“No, Douglas, it’s fine.” Martin attempts to argue.

“No, Martin it is not fine. You need someone there for you. I’ll be there in three hours.”

Martin stares down at the darkening screen of his phone. He considers calling Douglas back to tell him not to bother, but there is something warm spreading through his chest. _You need someone there for you_. It is really the first time in his life he has ever heard those words in that exact order. Martin decides right then and there that he is terrified of mixing the oil of a Sherlock he remembers with the deep-running waters of one Douglas Richardson.

*

“What the buggering bloody _fucking_ hell Sherlock?” John stands with his back against the bedroom wall as if to block out the rest of the world and force Sherlock’s attention to him while Sherlock sits on the bed opposite, staring down at his hands twisted together in his lap. John thinks he looks very much the lost child more than a thirty eight year old man.

“You don’t even look like yourself, Sherlock! What have you done?” John is so angry he is fairly certain he is about to blow a sprocket.

“John, calm down. Let me explain….” Sherlock refuses to meet John’s eyes.

John turns sideways and uncrosses his arms to slam his hand against the door, a trick he learned long ago that forces Sherlock's attention back to him from where ever it has wandered off. When he finally does, John takes in the weary lines around his eyes that are not burning with their normal intensity. Right now, he is adrift. Everything about him is _off_ : even down to the strange too-big clothing he is wearing and the way his hair looks as if someone lopped a handful of it off the back.

“After what you said, John, I just…what do the Aussies call it?” Sherlock turns away from John then back. “I went on a walkabout.” His chin juts out, his eyes beg for relief from the pain John can now plainly see.

“You what?” John slams his hand against the door again because he really wants to walk out _right now_ and he knows what a mistake that would be, since that is why they are here at this moment instead of in the lounge with Sherlock’s little brother. John growls deep in his throat and paces the room. Sherlock does not move.

John takes a deep breath to try and steady himself. Suddenly all the fight in him is gone, replaced by an empty dullness in the area of his chest where his heart should be. He sinks to the floor to place himself lower than his partner.

“Sherlock, please tell me what we are.” John closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his knees.

Sherlock cocks his head and furrows his brow as if he does not understand the question. “Sherlock and John.”

It is not quite the answer that John is looking for, but it is good enough to help him prove his point. “Fine. Good. What’s that tiny little word you used in between our names there?”

Sherlock opens his mouth.

“Don’t you dare correct my grammar. Answer me.”

Sherlock makes to close his mouth before he quickly answers. “And.”

“Right.” John takes another cleansing breath. “Right, so, you know I remember having this conversation not too long ago…do you remember that?” He asks his lanky man-child.

“John you know I do.” Sherlock barely suppresses the huff.

“Alright. The entire point of that three-letter word is that we do things _together._ ”

“Yes, John, but you said…”

“Sherlock, don’t. Don’t use my words to justify you dropping off the face of the earth for more than a day, _again…_ ”

“John! Listen to me!” Sherlock stands up to his full height from the mattress then drops to his knees where he still manages to loom over John. John tilts his head upward, his eyes defiant and unafraid. For an instant it feels like Sherlock is going to either kiss him or hit him; instead he deflates and moves to where he is sitting against the door but not touching John.

“Go ahead, Sherlock, I am listening.” John offers.

“John, you know how I feel about you.”

John nods.

“I am not using your words against _you_ , you used them against _me_. You said that if I didn’t believe things would ever be strong between us again that I could leave.” Sherlock mimics John’s posture, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.

“Oh God.” John whispers. In his worry about _where_ Sherlock had disappeared to, his mind has glossed over the _why_. “Sherlock, I am sorry. I was so upset, I should have never said that to you. Never. This is all my fault. What if something would have happened to you?” He turns his body towards Sherlock and reaches out to place his hand against his partner’s cheek.

“Sherlock, please. I was so wrong in all of this.” As it has always been between them, he will wait for Sherlock until the end of time.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice breaks and John pulls him into his chest, folding him against his body so that he finally settles with his head against John’s chest, long legs stretched out in front of him. They remain that way, bodies and minds reminding them why they belong to each other until they hear the muffled ringing of Martin’s phone.

“Come on, Sherlock, you have company. We will talk more about this later.” John begins to stand up, cautiously using Sherlock’s shoulder to balance because, in spite of it all, he still trusts the younger man and he is still worn out from completing the job for Mycroft that apparently has brought all the Holmes siblings within orbit of one another again.

Sherlock is quicker, though; before John can react he is on his back on the floor with Sherlock over him, brought down to the carpet gently in only the way that Sherlock is capable of doing, finally ending with the detective balanced on the palms of his hands, gazing into John’s eyes and searching for the answers to questions John knows full well Sherlock will never come right out and just ask.

Satisfied for the moment, he leans in ever so slowly and pushes their lips together, mindful of John’s still sore face. John’s hands find a grip on either of Sherlock’s hips and he pulls him closer, allowing his body to talk for him because there is nothing else he can say. They found equilibrium when Sherlock returned and they will find it once again, except this time there is an even larger, more intimate audience than before. They rock together there on the lowest point of the bedroom, seeking the solace only to be found in each other's bodies, hearts and minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, well, I think I've finally made up my mind about Martin :D


	5. Starting Over

By the time Douglas arrives at Baker Street, the tension in the place has abated somewhat; enough for John, Martin and Sherlock to be in the sitting room with hot beverages and a plate of sandwiches thanks to Mrs. Hudson. It is late afternoon and the sounds of the busy street out front waft in through windows cracked to permit some air circulation; it also serves functionally well in allowing some of the ‘bad air’ to escape. Sherlock's hair is still damp from his shower and he is wearing his own well-fitting clothing.

John is in the middle of telling Martin and Sherlock how his face came to be so bruised up during the execution of Mycroft’s latest clandestine medical run when someone knocks on the outside door. Before either of them can move to answer it, Mrs. Hudson’s voice calls up the stairs and within seconds, Douglas Richardson is stepping into the flat.

Martin realizes for the first time just how broad his first officer’s shoulders really are as he passes through the doorway a hairsbreadth from turning sidewise to enter the sitting room. Douglas’ brown eyes scan the room, his laugh lines crinkling slightly when he spies Martin sitting on the end of the sofa with his bare feet pulled up underneath himself. “Hey!” He smiles and it lights up his face.

Sherlock and John rest in their armchairs in poses that Douglas reads as ‘normal’ before John stands and offers the big man his hand. Sherlock in turn scans Douglas from toe to head, nods to himself then cuts his eyes towards his little brother with a small smirk curling on his lips.

Martin looks from his brother to his co-pilot, eyes widening in comprehension before a blush paints his features, forcing the color of his jade eyes to literally pop. He is unsure whether to be more surprised that he caught on or that Sherlock sees things so clearly that Martin has not yet admitted to himself. The captain shakes his head minutely and Sherlock’s expression becomes curious, his eyes narrow as his mind latches on to this _interesting_ development.

John watches the entire silent exchange with the air of one very accustomed to the unspoken conversations between Holmes siblings—he is gobsmacked that there’s another one who follows it as closely as if the words were broadcast over a loudspeaker; contrary to what Martin said earlier about having a difficult time following the purely physical comments between Mycroft and Sherlock. Perhaps it is easier between the two youngest brothers.

“Well, for those of us who have to actually speak, it is good to see you Douglas.” John says in order to cut through the normal Holmesian weirdness as he is not so sure the other man has ever been on the receiving end of it before.

“It is good to see you again, John.” Douglas takes a seat on the cushion in the center of the sofa, clearly marking his territory around Martin. Next to John, Sherlock snorts into his tea, forcing John to scowl at him. He pretends not to notice.

“You seem to be a bit more yourself today, John.” Douglas smiles as John goes to grab another cuppa.

“Yes, I am. Tea?”

“Please.” Douglas answers as John disappears into the kitchen.

Sherlock remains silent, very openly studying Douglas. The first officer seems to have no qualms to the scrutiny; he has relaxed back against the sofa and brought one leg up to cross over the other, that foot pointed towards Martin. Martin, in turn, has loosened up his own posture a bit and has actually leaned inward towards Douglas ever so slightly.

John stands in the archway between the kitchen and sitting room, watching Sherlock as he sizes up the newcomer. John has already decided that he likes Douglas and he knows Sherlock is digging deep, searching for a reason to argue with his own instant acceptance of the other man. Several things about the big man’s physique and character remind him very much of Greg Lestrade: there is something suave yet deeply paternal about him.

“Martin phoned you.” Sherlock says as John hands a blue mug to Douglas.

“Yes.” Douglas answers, sipping from the mug.

John waits on the other shoe to drop.

“I apologize.” Yeah, that was certainly _not_ what he was expecting at all. John’s head whips around so fast he fears that he has given himself whiplash. Sherlock shrugs and raises an eyebrow.

“I understand that there was some sort of communication breakdown between the two of you?” Douglas is nothing if not forthright with his questions.

Once again, John is struck with the similarities between Richardson and Lestrade. “Yeah.” He answers. Sherlock just nods.

“I get it.” Douglas says. “I really do. From what I understand from my own slight bit of research and speaking with Martin, you are pretty much the Phoenix that has returned from the fires of your own making. Things like that tend to teach us what matters.”

John knows Douglas is speaking directly to Sherlock. Sherlock’s gaze turns inward and after a short time he shakes his head in agreement. “Indeed.” Some sort of agreement has been struck between the two of them, almost as if they could reach into each others’ past and see reflected in their faces all of the good and bad things that made them who they are.

The moment passes and the four men seem to relax with one another. “Douglas, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Martin and I were able to get acquainted a bit on the plane and Mycroft has brought us up to speed on some family stuff, but I’m sure you’ve got some questions, too.” John offers, feeling like the air has been cleared for new patterns to be woven. He is still upset with Sherlock for disappearing for three months, and he knows that there are things the detective is not telling him; yet for now he wants to get to know his extended family a bit better. And really, Martin and Douglas now are as much _his_ family as they are Sherlock’s; the thought brings emotions to the forefront of his mind that he believed dead and gone.

*

It is late in the evening when the conversations are exhausted for the day. The four of them have covered so much ground in a rather small amount of time and Martin is tired of talking.

“Martin, you are both welcome to stay here for the night if you wish. The couch is here and there is still a bed upstairs if you like.” John calls from the kitchen where he is doing a bit of washing up. Sherlock is pacing about the room with his face stuck in his phone, occasionally typing in a text with rapid-fire precision. Apparently, wherever he was he managed to keep in touch with the Yard. He has solved three cases via text since the night he and John argued and he walked out; he has almost completed number four in the last fifteen minutes.

Martin has been watching his older brother with a look on his face that can only be described as awe. Hearing about the genius solving cases is one thing, but actually seeing it up close and the ability to do it without even leaving the flat? Well, that is… “Brilliant.” Martin says before covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock stops what he is doing, a potentially energetic storm brought to a sudden halt by a single word. He tilts his head and zeroes in on his ginger sibling who is once again blushing with embarrassment; almost as if the detective has forgotten the other man was even in the room. Like a hawk diving for prey, Sherlock crosses the room in two strides, steps onto and over the coffee table to land between Martin and Douglas on the couch before encircling his brother with his long arms and folding him into a vastly overdue bear hug.

From the kitchen John begins to laugh. Douglas, slightly uncomfortable, joins him, giving the boys the bonding time they so obviously need.

“I’ll dry.” He says to John who hands him a clean towel. They watch for another moment until Martin’s shoulders begin to tremble and a small sob breaks loose from him. John nods to Douglas and the two of them move towards the sink. They start talking about James Bond movies, their voices a calm soundtrack to the emotional but ultimately cleansing upheaval between two thirds of a family that has been apart for entirely too long.

*

As soon as he says it, Martin tries desperately to retrieve the word from the air.

“Brilliant.” He claps his hands over his mouth. When Sherlock freezes on the spot to regard his brother with his full attention—something Martin has not been privy to in many years—suddenly, the walls between them crack and begin to sway.

Sherlock always thinks. His mind does not even shut itself off when he sleeps, a fact John knows all too well. However, this one time he never even considers his actions even when he sees the fear spread across his baby brother’s freckled features. He drops his phone into his trouser pocket and then he is suddenly curled around Martin with the younger man’s head on his shoulder and something unfurling in his chest that he has not felt since the first time John kissed him.

With quick precision, Sherlock scrutinizes these emotions then files them beside the John box in his mind. Similar, yes, but not the same; this is something he was sure he had deleted. When Martin’s body begins to tremble, Sherlock is pulled back in time twenty-five years to when he was thirteen and Martin was ten. They were in the back garden, racing through the puddles as boys with more energy than sense are wont to do after a spring thunderstorm. One of them, the blame is as faded as the memory dims with time, had the bright idea to climb the big tree in the corner…then Martin is airborne, his skinny arms stretched out, face turned towards the sky. Sherlock remembers the flash of a shock of wild curls as the copper ringlets caught the sun and the boy laughs with unadulterated joy as weightlessness surrounds him.

Sherlock is on the branch right behind him, already knowing far more about gravity than Martin will listen to. He sees it all in slow motion: the way his own hand reaches out for his baby brother and misses, his fingers barely grazing Martin’s red and blue Spiderman t-shirt.

Martin’s laugh changes quickly to a scream when the realization of gravity’s pull hits him like a slap and then he is plummeting towards the ground and Sherlock is scarpering down the tree so fast that he completely misses the sound of his ankle dislocating as he makes a bad landing, because it does not matter. All that matters is that he can’t move fast enough, he can’t get to Martin…he can’t get _under_ Martin to cushion his fall. Martin lands face first on the spongy ground and the next thing Sherlock is aware of is holding the slightly built boy in his arms and crying, calling out “Icarus…no” because Martin was knocked out cold by the shock of his small body colliding with the earth. Sherlock held on to Martin in the back of the ambulance all the way to the hospital, finally letting go only when two nurses and an orderly discovered that he could barely walk on his damaged ankle. After he was bandaged up and given pain killers that would literally make him sleep for two days, Mycroft dragged him home.

Martin was sent to spend the summer with an aunt and uncle in Scotland that year and Sherlock back to boarding school in the fall. Their father walked out on their mother before Christmas and Mycroft was left holding the unraveling strands of his family. Somehow between Wendy and Mycroft the decision was made for Mycroft to remain at home as much as possible to care for Sherlock, while Wendy took Martin and moved away, as the memories were too much for her. The days of Martin and Sherlock, peas-in-a-pod, were over too soon for either boy to have a say.

Martin finally gets himself under control and pushes himself upright. Sherlock watches him carefully, taking in every detail of his face and the way his hands muss his curls. Usually he can turn to John when a victim is crying, when they are hurting, and John does his wonderful John things that help them through it. This time, Sherlock knows it is on him. He gently places his hand on the back of Martin’s neck, the broad palm covering the expanse of his brother’s neck under the curls there that are damp with sweat. With the other hand he wipes his brother’s tears away like he was unable to do so long ago.

“I’m sorry.” He says, pulling Martin to him again. Martin sniffs and nods his head to show he understands.

“No, Sherlock, I should have come looking for you long ago. Mom never tried to hide you from me, she just…well, she never encouraged it. I worked so hard to be someone you could be proud of so on the day when I did finally run into you…”

“Martin, I am proud of you.” Sherlock’s voice is low, though Martin catches every word. “I am proud you didn’t turn out like me.” He closes his eyes and rests his chin against Martin’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for my Big Brothers who always kept me from leaping out of trees.


	6. Looking Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, you are the Con…Concorde to my puddle jumper!” Then he starts to laugh at himself for both the silly imagery and the stutter.

Martin lets go of Sherlock in order to look up into his face. “What?” He asks incredulously, his voice ragged and hoarse from sobbing. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

For someone who previously painted himself as a ‘sociopath’ he is without a doubt sharing in Martin’s confusion. He frowns and attempts to explain himself, something he does for no one, well, except for John. John will tell him that this is _important_. Strangely for him, though, he is having an incredibly difficult time getting on with it. He gazes down at his little brother, looking into those eyes that he missed more than he could ever admit and listens to the rolling background hum of John and Douglas in the kitchen. Suddenly he realizes what all of it really means for him, for them.

“Martin, you _feel_ and you understand.” Sherlock nobly ignores the tears falling from his own eyes; some of them gather along his sinfully long eyelashes like icicles on a winter's morning. “You _see_.”

Martin frowns up at his brother, until understanding washes over him like a powerful storm, a summer thunderstorm that leaves everything clean and bright in its aftermath. He does not fight the sob that breaks from him as he moves forward in order to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s thin shoulders.

For his part, Sherlock leans in closer until his head now rests on Martin’s shoulder. So much has changed for him as he has gone from self-appointed loner to diving off a hospital roof to protect those people he cares most about. And, now, to be given back the one person he thought he would never see again? In this second, he understands what he has put John through.

“I _am_ sorry.” Sherlock mumbles against Martin, who is valiantly struggling to stop his tears by closing his eyes and rubbing them with his hands.

Martin does not trust himself to say another word so he merely shakes his head up and down and holds Sherlock close, thinking that somewhere along the line perhaps they have traded places.

Because when they were younger, all the ten years that Martin spent with Sherlock, it was often Sherlock picking him up out of the mud or dragging him away from the verge of danger…that is not to say that Sherlock is innately _dangerous_ , just that even at that age, Sherlock could size up a situation so quickly and usually would take the best way out for himself. Martin had never been so lucky, constantly getting into trouble. Mostly, though, the danger was minor: inadvertently poking a stick into a beehive the insects had built deep into the truck of a tree so old it had probably been no more than a sapling when the Druids danced on the solstices; scaling the broken stone walls between the beach head and the villa when on holiday; and last, but not least, leaping from yet another tree because Sherlock had begun reading Greek mythology and Martin had been honored to be nicknamed _Icarus_. Of course, he had not had the patience to finish the story and so did not realize that Icarus never completed his flight.

Flight. Flying, being airborne, toes touching the clouds….after that, it was the only thing Martin could hold on to that still faintly echoed of the big brother that had been so close to him. Sherlock never laughed at him when he said he wanted to grow up to be an aeroplane…and not a small puddle jumper, a big jetliner that held hundreds of passengers…of course, next to his Concorde-esque brother, Martin was most certainly not much more than a twin-engine prop job.

And right there? “Sherlock, you are the Con…Concorde to my puddle jumper!” Then he starts to laugh at himself for both the silly imagery and the stutter.

Sherlock is holding him so tightly against his chest now that when he follows suit, the deeply thunderous laugh that bubbles out of the tall detective vibrates against Martin until they are both a warm boyish puppy pile of giggles on the couch.

Martin barely remembers the last time he has been able to laugh so hard and so joyously…and that includes all of Arthur Shappey’s hi-jinks over the past two years. In each huff of breath they share, a raw honesty begins to break the iced-over wall between them that was built by forces neither could control—until now.

*

The first melodious note of laughter strikes John right in the heart; he has no choice but to set his cup on the table and stare wonderingly into the other room, his blue eyes shining with curiosity. As the sound gains in volume, he quizzically gazes at Douglas who is smiling despite himself.

“I do believe one of them has lost his mind.” He says before draining his coffee. “Feel like a fiver on which one?”

John giggles a bit nervously. “Oh no, I know your type, I lost plenty on those wagers back in my army days.” He gives Douglas’ shoulder a small, tight-fisted punch that the older man pretends to reel back from. “Shall we?” He grins and gestures towards the sitting room.

The scene that greets them is one of the last things that John would have ever expected. He can clearly see two heads of wild curly hair bouncing about with each giggle, one chestnut and the other jet black. It is such a ridiculous sight that he is taken along on the same ride. At his shoulder, Douglas joins in.

John plops down into his chair just as Sherlock looks up and John wonders where all the oxygen in the room has suddenly gone. His green eyes are fucking sparkling emeralds, his cheeks are rosy and the tracks of dried tears are tiny crystals reflecting back an inner joy. Something undeniable between John’s chest and groin begins to purr and he smiles wide at his lover. This is not oh-hey-wow-we-have-a-serial-killer look; this is something deeper, something _more_. “Sherlock, you look twenty years younger.”

Sherlock’s reply is to grin, then reach around Martin and poke his fingers into the younger man's ribcage, never for a second taking his eyes from John’s face. Martin squeals and pushes against Sherlock’s chest with both hands, finally raising his head enough to peer over the long arm holding him in one place to see Douglas and John watching them as if they are chimps at the zoo, silly smiles plastered on their faces, too. As to be expected, Martin colors up beautifully but for once does not try to hide his head.

He merely laughs at himself again and leans back against Sherlock’s shoulder. John cannot think of a time he has seen anything more lovely or astonishing than a pair of happy Holmes brothers; because the ones he knows so well would never be caught giggling on the couch and tickling each other, not in a million years. He shakes his head, considering the strangeness of their lives.

When Martin and Sherlock finally catch their breaths, they move apart, but only far enough that their shoulders still touch. They pass the evening telling stories on their younger selves with an occasional addition by John or Douglas in comparing who they are now with who they were then. At some point, someone orders takeaway and it is well after midnight when the fortune cookie tossing fight ends. (Douglas wins because he stuffs them down the back of Sherlock's chair.)

Sherlock pulls Martin into a tight hug as he and Douglas prepare to leave for the night, promising to be back tomorrow afternoon for some sight-seeing. Douglas and John shake hands; Douglas then offers his hand to Sherlock who at first studies it closely and then, egged on by his brother, takes it in his own. John smiles down, taking note of how Sherlock’s broad but slender and elegant hand is engulfed by the first officer’s meatier but no less strong one. The image is so poignant he wishes for a second that he had a camera.

“Thank you.” Martin says to Sherlock and John. Sherlock nods.

“You are more than welcome.” John offers, his heart in his face as he looks between the three of them, his heart fit to burst.

“Good night, gentleman. It has been quite a wonderful day.” Douglas quips as he reaches out towards Martin, hauling the smaller man to his side with an arm around his waist before he starts down the steps. For an second, Martin tenses then relaxes into the warmth. They have never talked about it but in that instant, Martin _knows_ how Douglas feels about him and he starts to consider the next step. They climb into the back of the cab leaving just enough room between them to breathe. Douglas gives the driver the name of the hotel he has booked a room in and turns to Martin, a silent question gracing his features.

“Martin, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so unguardedly happy since I’ve known you.” He fights the urge to gently push the curly ginger crescent that has fallen over Martin’s eye back to where should be with the rest of the wild mess on his head. It is dark in the back seat save for the flickering lights of the insomniac city flashing by the windows. "And that includes days of flying clear skies." Douglas thinks about the way Martin’s green eyes relected all of the light in the room when he peered over Sherlock’s arms, for an instant throwing him back in time to days spent making blanket forts and playing cowboys with his own pack of rambunctiously ruffian siblings.

Martin smiles, a geniune smile that brightens up his face. Douglas has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. Always before, his relationships sort of _happened_ to him; this is the first time that he seems to be making a coherent choice. He is long-time sober but the way Martin is looking at him is giving him the same brain mushing feeling as a three-shot buzz. He has fought this for so long, but being surrounded by good people who love each other has shown him the error of his thinking.

The cab stops in front of the hotel. Douglas thrusts his credit card in the direction of the driver’s hand and receives it back, never once taking his eyes from Martin’s face. Something has changed again and Martin is gazing back at him, returning the heat that he can feel building between them with interest. No more hiding, there is clear intent there.

Douglas left his bag in the room prior to visiting Baker Street, and, knowing that Martin brought nothing of his own with him on this spontaneous trip, packed some essentials for the captain as well. The need to make someone else comfortable is a new one for Douglas but he takes it all in stride. They stop at the desk to retrieve the room key and he finds himself wrapping his arm around Martin’s trim hips for the second time. Now, Martin does not tense up, merely takes the comforting gesture for what it is without question.

“Thank you.” Martin whispers as Douglas closes the door to their room. Douglas turns towards him and sees a million different possibilities in the shimmering jade orbs staring deeply into his soul. He tugs against Martin’s arms as he drops to sit on the edge of the bed; the room is small but well-appointed and the silky-topped white duvet underneath him feels heavenly to the touch.

“Martin, I don’t know how to say this…” he trails off, finally allowing himself to raise his hand and brush the back of it across the captain’s cheek, secretly counting each neat little dot of pigment than dances across his face and over the bridge of his nose. Douglas’ protective instinct kicks into overdrive and he decides he needs to just come out with it. “I have developed feelings for you, _captain._ ”

“Douglas?” Martin’s eyes grow wide yet he does not pull away. His heart pounds against his chest and he wants to simply hand it up, still beating, to the big man who has allowed him to stumble about in ignorance for so long while _this_ was building up between them.

“I am no good for you, Martin Crieff. I am a washed-up old Sky God with three divorces behind me, ten years on you, and an entire cargo hold of baggage along for the ride.” He knows he is stating the obvious, but he so desperately wants to be completely, unmistakably clear that the captain has a choice. He curls his hand around Martin’s nape, holding tightly but not stopping the other man from moving, should he want to do so. Douglas brushes his fingers against baby fine curls, marveling in the heat pouring from the soft skin he discovers there. “I have virtually nothing to offer you except companionship …but I am fully capable of taking care of you. I will never hold you back, Martin, even if you need to walk away from me. I will give you everything if you will give me this one chance.” Douglas feels as if he has never spoken truer words.

Martin’s chest heaves and the tears threaten to start anew. All of these emotions in a single day; he will not fight it, never. “I will admit that I….I think I’ve seen you as more than a _friend_ …for some time, Douglas…but I…” he stutters then hesitates. “I’ve never dared hope you felt the same.” His courage falters and he looks down at the grey-blue carpet under their feet.

While the noise from his own heartbeat rushes through his ears, Douglas places his fingers under Martin’s chin to tilt his head upward, allowing him to see clearly that everything that is on display, everything that is offered to this man that has been through so much, is, without a doubt, crystal clear: no prank, no joke, no _lie_. When they finally cross that last barrier, when their lips finally touch, neither man closes his eyes. Douglas will swear the rest of his life that he saw sparks between them.

Douglas holds back some, not wanting to push too hard too soon, but when Martin makes a soft sigh in the back of his throat and is the one to push forward until Douglas is on his back on the bed, pulling back for one breath and then moving in to plunder Douglas’ mouth with his own; then and only then does Douglas grasp his captain’s hips and deftly flip them over to where he rests on his arms, palms flat on the mattress on either side of Martin’s head, bodies pressed together from chest to knees. Martin holds Douglas steady, his hands on Douglas’ temples, long fingers buried in the silky silver and brown strands of thick mane and steadily pulling him to his mouth in order to wordlessly tell the other man that his desires are returned with interest and then some.

Dogulas floats skyward as he rocks his pelvis downward, rolling his hips and losing himself in the sensation of the leanly muscular body underneath him; then realizes that they are _still_ wearing clothes.

This thought slams Douglas back to earth, where he is now aware of a pair of muscular calves working against his rump, taut thighs tightening on either side of his own and small, breathy groans slipping between plush lips that are urging him onward, asking for _more_ ; naturally, being a gentleman, he is happy to oblige. 


	7. Warming Up

“Sherlock, I know I always tell you that you are amazing, but that…” John tiptoes up to plant a small kiss on Sherlock’s jaw.

“That was something else.” He whispers as his lips barely touch the corner of Sherlock’s mouth now turned up in the smallest hint of a grin since Martin’s tears finally dried and the two of them had been laughing like idiots. Naturally, John will never tell Sherlock he was doing anything at all like an _idiot_ , but the thought still stands regardless.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock snakes his arms around John’s torso and hauls him closer for a proper kiss that soon grows more heated. When they finally resurface for oxygen, John finds that Sherlock has turned them around and backed him up against the wall. Sherlock rolls his hips right into John’s and John reacts by grabbing two fistfuls of posh detective bum as the sizzling energy builds between them. John looks up to see a hint of the ‘normal’ Sherlock gazing back at him and for an instant he is ready to wipe that narrow-eyed, haughty expression off his lover’s face by throwing him into the floor and fucking him into oblivion. That is not John’s way, however, so he settles for dropping to his knees and gently but making sure there will be no mistake about his intentions whatsoever undoes the flies on Sherlock’s black trousers. He enjoys the feel of the soft material against his fingertips as he strokes Sherlock through royal purple silk boxers. When Sherlock groans and bucks his hips, John kindly drops the whole mess of clothing to the floor.

Sherlock’s big hands wrap around John’s head, not forcing, never forcing, only holding…and as soon as the heat of his lover’s mouth engulfs him, Sherlock rides the crest of the wave guided expertly by John’s lips and tongue. He groans and manages to stop himself before he yanks out a handful of John’s hair, absent-mindedly stroking the top of John’s head and his cheeks as he pushes Sherlock from the brink of arousal into the heady rush of climax.

Having been on such an emotional rollercoaster for the past however many hours, it is no surprise to Sherlock that the powerful orgasm overtaking him makes his knees buckle and only by John’s lighting quick reaction does not find himself on the floor. Though it is unusual for him spend so much time on matters of the heart, he is no fool to recognizing his own mind-set: he has gone from overwhelmed with guilt to euphoric in an incredibly short amount of days and he knows he is going to need some down time in order to process it all.

John literally pulls Sherlock against his more compact frame as he stands up. With his arm locked around his lover’s waist, John leads them to the bedroom where, after cleaning what little bit of mess is drying on Sherlock he wraps himself around the lanky man and chuckles a little as Sherlock falls into a curious, but very much needed deep sleep; his body gone virtually boneless and still trembling with the slight aftershocks of his pleasure and subsequent release.

*

Douglas Richardson, self-proclaimed Sky God, finds himself completely wrapped up in a very earthy softly snoring ginger airdot captain when the sun decides that he has slept long enough, waking him with warm caresses of seemingly solid tendrils of golden light to his eyelids, cheeks and lips. He takes a deep breath through his nose and arches his back enough to ease the normal morning stiffness of his bones. Martin stirs against his side and moves his head against Dogulas’ chest slightly, brushing satiny curls against Douglas’ chin. Douglas smiles up at the ceiling, thanking whatever deity has been watching over him his entire life that he is here. His life has been nothing but a perfect metaphor for landing a plane: never perfect, but on the good days he gets to walk away; on the best days the aircraft can be reused. Douglas rests one palm against the back of Martin’s head, his thumb gently caressing the supple skin there. In his wakening state, Martin mutters a little and draws himself impossibly closer to the old Sky God’s heart.

 

For Martin, hearing the thud of a strong heartbeat against his ear the first thing upon awakening to a bright morning is as amazing as the first time he pulled back the yoke and lifted a metal bird into the air. He is exhilarated, excited and downright euphoric. When Douglas arches his back, Martin moves off of his broad chest to his side. Douglas rolls towards him and the look in the older man’s eyes is enough to make Martin drag him in closer and kiss him deeply, morning breath be damned.

They kiss as if they have forever. The two men are carried away by the ocean of passion until they both succumb to twin climaxes then slowly fall back into the silken arms of Morpheus curled together like spoons in a drawer.

*

Marie’s mobile rings with an annoyingly jaunty tune entirely too early. She tries to ignore it by thinking about the night before.

After escaping Mrs. Hudson’s hospitality at Baker Street, she met a couple of friends at a local pub and then proceeded to drink entirely too many shots and cocktails. She refuses to admit to herself that part of the binge was brought on because she saw the good-looking ginger that had come from the airport with Dr. Watson exit the building with a tall, well-dressed older man with a thick mane of neatly styled silver hair. This completely confirmed what she thought at first about the Holmes boys and how the good-looking _nice_ ones are _always_ gay.

The horrible tune is not giving up. How is that even possible? It should have gone to voice mail ten rings ago, and besides she was almost one hundred percent certain she turned the damn thing off last night. Marie places both palms over her eyes and tries hard to forgive the sun for being so good-natured today. Where are the gray London skies when they are really needed?

She sits up and goes about hating her luck then detesting the nasty way her mouth tastes. When was the last time she went on such a bender? Gah.

Marie blearily snatches the phone off the desk beside the door and pays no attention to the caller ID before clicking ‘answer’ with her thumb and trying hard not to yawn into the machine. The phone is warm against her palm, yet another reminder that the sun is up and that she has overslept for the first time since being pulled out of the field. Marie narrows her eyes against the brilliant shine from the absurdly clean window that she apparently forgot to pull the blind over when she stumbled in at I’m-a-drunk-ass o’clock.

“Good morning, Miss Daniels. I take it that the Brass Bulldog’s selection of whiskey and mixed drinks were to your satisfaction.” A silky oil-and-water voice drawls from the other end of the line.

Dammit. The last person she wants to talk to, especially after checking out his baby brother and then wasting an entire evening pining about said brother. She refuses to reply to such an obvious statement about how she spent her night _alone_ , merely huffing through a closed mouth; which turns out to only start the pounding in her head that until now had graciously remained mute.

Mycroft knows full well the meaning of every irritated sound coming from his second-favorite employee; even though he cannot see her, he can easily picture each of the corresponding facial expressions. He would most certainly prefer to let her have the day off, but as is always the case when one’s very lifeblood is caring for the protection of others, there are _things_ that need attending to.

“Marie, I do apologize for interrupting what I am sure will be a day of rest and relaxation.” His svelte voice somehow manages to be a balm to her throbbing brain. 

Marie groans weakly and rubs her eyes with the hand not cradling the phone to her ear.

“Mycroft, please tell me succinctly what you need me for. Sherlock and your newly discovered baby brother are safely in the arms of the _men_ who see to their daily well-being.” Another groan follows a labored exhale. “I do my job and I do it very well, so well, in fact, that neither of them have even given me a second look.” She knows full well that Mycroft can read her, even through a wireless connection but barrels on ahead anyway, bolstered in part by the hangover that is crashing over her with renewed vigor. She drops into the desk chair as she contemplates a bloody Mary.

*

Mycroft Holmes is currently in residence at his dining room table, his gold-toe stockinged feet resting up against the polished ebony top, and rubbing at his forehead with both index fingers. He adjusts the black ear piece hanging over his left ear, hoping that he really did not hear yet another female in the orbit of certain younger brothers just admit to being disappointed at their lack of interest in the so-called softer gender. He shakes his head wearily as he listens to Marie sit down heavily in whichever chair is closest to her. “Sometimes a screwdriver is better than a Bloody Mary; at least you can convince yourself it has the redeeming quality of a breakfast beverage added to it.” His lips quirk upward in a smooth grin that he knows she will hear.

On the other end of the line, Marie starts to argue that you can drink tomato juice for breakfast; too, instead she huffs a little. “Will you get on with it, Mycroft?” He could swear she is clenching her teeth.

Never _Mister_ Holmes for this one, which is one of the myriad of reasons why Mycroft likes her, he thinks as he fiddles with the earpiece again. “There has been a bit of _activity_ surrounding the hotel that Martin and Douglas are currently rooming in.” He pretends not to comprehend the unhappy little sigh from Marie’s end of the conversation. “Right now you are the closest to them in physical proximity and it would be quite a _personal_ honor if you would just check it out for me. If, for one second, you feel _compromised_ by the situation, do not hesitate to request backup or call me directly.”

There is silence for a full sixty three seconds before Marie says, “I will sir.” She hangs up without another word.

Mycroft clicks the button on the ear piece and the little green light goes off. It is not very long before another call comes through and he gracefully drops his feet off of the table then strides over to a heavy wooden door in the corridor between the dining room and the sitting room. While waiting for the call to connect, he turns the gleaming brass knob and steps into his personal inner sanctum. The walls are crowded with fifty inch flat screen monitors, six personal computers and corresponding desks, as well as a small refrigerator and a full bar at the end of the room. There are no windows but a soft white chandelier dangles from the ceiling, its hundreds of crystal teardrops sway slightly with the breeze from the opening door.

“Holmes.” He says into the Bluetooth device then listens patiently to the voice on the other end of the line, his icy blue eyes darting about the room. After a bit he frowns and stares at the back wall. Mycroft’s call is terminated when he says confidently, “Understood.” He clicks the ear piece off and removes it, setting down on the desk closest to the door.

Mycroft’s feet barely make a sound as he pads towards the bar, switching on three of the computers as he passes them. On the mint green papered walls, several of the screens come to life and are filled with footage from CC TVs throughout the city. At least three of them are showing the front doors and lobby of the hotel where Martin and Douglas are staying; two more show the front and back doors of Baker Street and the others display a plethora of pictures of other various, handpicked locations.

Mycroft reaches for a gold-label bottle filled with amber liquid and a shot glass. He downs the smooth whiskey then moves to another desk and takes a lined notepad from the drawer, along with a biro. He writes with rapid efficiency, the pen rolling smoothly over the cream paper until he has filled the entire page with numbers: an entire list of both the coordinates and codes he has just memorized. He pours another shot and prepares to wait for the end result of one of two plans to occur.


	8. Fight to the Finish Line

**BOOM!**


	9. Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, my cut-and-paste skills are shit when I am sick. I apologize to everyone who has already read this chapter, there was just a wee bit more to it. Please direct all calls...oh, who are we kidding? Like I'm gonna answer the phone!

In Mycroft’s lifetime, he has rarely ever been _wrong_ about anything (and those few usually involve Sherlock in some way or form.) The very millisecond he realizes that he was wrong about something _important_ for only the second or third time _ever_ , he moves away from the bar and begins calling in the cavalry, his fingers flying effortlessly over keyboard and mobile phone alike as his eyes fly from screen to screen pinpointing the exact location of both of his brothers.  

*

“Martin?” Douglas’ voice is cracked and tinny sounding; crackling like an old radio with a bad connection. Everything is dark. Martin attempts to raise a hand to brush off the strange weight that is pushing down upon his face and shoulders; all he encounters is what feels incongruently like rocky sand. A faint memory of an echo of a wall of sound stirs in his mind. He opens his mouth in order to answer Douglas' call but the only sound that comes out is a wheezy cough that in turn tastes like he’s got a mouthful of talcum powder. Martin tries to open his eyes but that is no better, either. His awareness is vague, though he can still hear Douglas calling for him. So he tries again, spurred on by the nervous tone that seems to be just above and to his left. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, there is a scraping sound above him and a bright light bursts into view. Strangely, it almost like the hotel no longer has a roof and he is looking directly up into a blue and cloudy sky. Martin takes a deep breath and the first wave of acute pain rolls over him. Everything is blurry, hazy like being under water and looking up towards where the sun should be only to find out that you are upside down and pointed towards the silty bottom of the pond.

“Douglas?” Martin whispers into the air. He remembers waking up warm and secure. Now, instead of sturdy arms around him, he can see that he is surrounded by what is left of the very ceiling he was attempting to locate in his addled mind. What is going on here?

A helmeted and masked face of a firefighter appears in Martin’s range of vision. The young black man reaches out towards him and pulls more of the rubble away from his head. He can hear a little better now, though everything is still muffled; shock is beginning to set in and he has yet to consider the implications of any type of hearing loss. Above him, the fireman’s mouth is moving but Martin cannot make out the words so he weakly shakes his head. The man holds up a gloved finger then reaches up to pull off his face mask. Startlingly white teeth in a nicely shaped mouth appear beneath warm brown eyes.

“Mr. Crieff? Can you hear me?” He asks in a voice made rough by the tornadoes of dust flying through the air.

Martin tries again to speak and only grows more irritated when nothing passes between his lips other than a rough squawk. His body begins to tremble.

“It’s alright, Mr. Crieff. Just stay there, stay calm and we will have you out of here in a jiffy.” The young fireman pats in the general direction of where Martin is fairly sure his hand is. He starts to turn away and Martin finds his voice.

“Douglas?” He whispers.

“Douglas?” The man looks around as he straightens his helmet. His eyes seem to land on the person Martin is asking for, so he shakes his head to the affirmative. “Do you mean Mr. Richardson?”

Martin nods.

“He is fine; he is standing there with a paramedic. Do you want to see him?” The fireman asks as he points in that direction.

Martin nods again. The young man disappears and Martin finds himself alone. Panic is beginning to build in the back of his mind when Douglas’s face appears. “Martin?” Douglas queries, his strong voice made gravely by whatever has happened to them.

“What…” Martin manages.

“What happened? Is that what you are asking?” Douglas reaches over the rubble to cup Martin’s cheek and his eyes widen. There is gash running from the outside of Martin’s eye down the side of his face. Douglas avoids it, but cannot avoid Martin seeing his reaction and the fear that stills his expression is one Douglas hopes to never see again.

“Martin, your face is cut, that’s all, love.” Martin relaxes a bit. “Apparently someone set some sort of bomb off on the roof. I am relatively unhurt; my back is bruised up good because I was sleeping on my belly. They shifted the rubble off me pretty quickly, but they are taking extra care with you because there may be some evidence in the mess. OK?”

Martin is back to nodding. He wishes he could move his hands. The captain tries hard to ignore the murky, slimy fear that is nagging at the back of his mind. Fear that all is not what it seems. 

“Good. That’s good Martin. I’ll stay until they tell me to get out of the way.” Douglas gently dusts off the parts of Martin’s face he can see and dare to touch. “The fire brigade was here in seconds, Martin, right on the heels of the blast. From what I understand, only part of the thing went off. There has already been a bomb squad here. I’ve never seen the emergency services appear so quickly…almost as if they _already_ knew what was happening.” Douglas casts about for anything else to say, hoping that he can keep Martin calm until they can find out what has happened to him.

Martin’s eyes slip closed and Douglas watches closely as his breathing evens out; a good sign meaning sleep rather than being knocked out. He is confident that there may not be any major head trauma, though he is very concerned for the parts of Martin that cannot yet be seen, especially his back and legs. Douglas is sure that the captain is in shock and hopes for a quick rescue from the scene.

The luckiest thing they have going for them is that the bed is situated between the beams holding up the ceiling, so that when they fell, they fell to either side of the bed. The rest of the room, however, is a disaster as parts of the ceiling and the roof cover ever other available space. It only occurs to Douglas after a few moments’ silence that the paramedics and members of the fire brigade standing about the room seem to be waiting on something.

It is not very long at all when he hears the unmistakable sounds of a helicopter overhead and has a general idea of what everyone has been waiting on. Dougals glances down again at Martin's sleeping face, noticing that he is not restful by any meaning of the word. It physical hurts him to be unable to help so he stays right where he is until the rescue team makes him move. 

*

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, will you just _answer_ your phone?” John cries in exasperation from behind the closed bathroom door.

Sherlock’s mobile is literally screeching nonstop as it has been for the past five minutes and if John weren’t so indisposed, he would have answered it for no better reason than to shut it up. Apparently one day when Sherlock was bored, he fiddled around with the ring tones and now the noise coming out of it is enough to raise the dead.

Then kill them again.

Sherlock is somehow able to ignore the thick bursts of what were probably a guitar and drums before someone beat the living shit out of the instruments with what could only be described as a caterwauling cat dying a very slow, very painful death.

John yanks open the bathroom door with one hand while ungracefully attempting to zip up his fly with the other. “Damn, Sherlock! It could be an emergency!”

Sherlock rolls over onto his back and scoots up the bed until he is leaning in posh pasha style against his pillow. He glares at John from under half-lidded eyes, turns his head to look down at his miserably wailing phone on the nightstand, then glances back to John, who is about ready to burst. “It’s just Mycroft. Again.” Sherlock takes the time to enunciate each and every single syllable.

“Gah.” John growls and lunges for the phone. Sherlock’s hand reaches out towards him as he answers it so he leans back out of the way. John spins on his heels and heads for the kitchen. “Hello? Mycroft. Yes, he’s being….” The sudden silence forces Sherlock off the mattress and out the bedroom door, mostly. He finds himself face first on the floor, his long legs bound by the twisted sheet. Sherlock huffs and hopes John did not see him. He grabs for some clothes and walk-dresses himself into the kitchen.

“What?” John is asking Mycroft as Sherlock steps towards the tea kettle. He glances towards his partner, who is now standing with his hand braced on the back of a wooden dining chair. John’s face has gone completely white. In one stride, Sherlock grabs the phone out of his hand, pulls the chair out and none too gently pushes John into it.

“Mycroft, tell me _now._ ” Sherlock orders into the speaker.There is a pregnant pause before he listens intently then hangs up on his brother before Mycroft can complete his sentence. 

“We are on our way.” He rushes into the sitting room, grabs jackets and shoes and thrusts John’s at him. In less than five minutes they are in the back of the cab on the way to the hospital that Martin and Douglas have been airlifted to.


	10. Choices

Sherlock slams an open palm against the double doors that lead to the unit where Martin is being kept. The heavy plastic bangs against the cement walls and the resounding crack of an echo is a march that follows the detective down the corridor, reminding he and John both that they know very little about the entire situation. Every fiber in Sherlock’s being is screaming that he is going to justify that oversight and very soon. John hangs back a bit in order to allow himself to react to whatever is going to happen once Sherlock steps into that room.

Without stopping, Sherlock whisks past the nurses’ station and down one of the wings to a bank of identical doors. Several pairs of eyes follow the dramatic movement of a tall, fast-striding bloke in a black suit who looks for all the world like he belongs there. No one makes any attempt to stop him or John, who gives the staff a little nod of gratitude as he passes them on the heels of the detective.

As is his wont, it takes Sherlock less than a second to figure out which room his brother is in and he lays his broad hand on that particular door to push it open before he is stilled by John’s warm palm against the two layers of smooth material covering his lower back.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock turns his head but does not remove his hand from the door, from beyond which they can hear the soft murmur of low voices.

Emotion has always been a struggle for the detective and the haunted, hurting expression on Sherlock’s face stops John from saying another word. John knows well that the past day has been overwhelming as Sherlock’s lips part and he exhales. For an instant, he is taken back to that cold day when he could barely see the detective on the rooftop and he wonders if this expression was in any way similiar to that one.

Sherlock's voice pulls John back to the moment harshly, like being soaked by a bucket of ice water in February.

“John, it is too dangerous for Martin to be around us.” He faces the door for the second time but stops again, as though he is unsure for the briefest of seconds. His head is bowed, the mad curls falling into his face. All the times he was unable to protect his little brother flood his senses. Right now, for him, this is the only answer: it is all he can do, remove himself from the situation in order to protect those he truly cares about. It is a familiar sensation.

John wants to ask him what stupid fool thing he is going to do and is suddenly overcome by the precious memory of Sherlock and his baby brother curled together on the couch, their laughter a new kind of music carrying through the flat. It is up to him to stop Sherlock from destroying that fragile connection. John tries hard not to make too many of Sherlock’s decisions, but this is one he knows instinctively his partner needs made for him before he does something irrevocably idiotic. Sherlock is moving again and John's fingers are grabbing at his arm and there is just air where the limb had been and the door is open.

*

When Martin next comes to, everything that was muffled earlier has become more distinct; he can easily make out Douglas speaking to a woman who possesses a calm, authoritative voice. She must be the doctor. Martin has a vague memory of the helicopter ride from the hotel, the familiarity of flight compounded with the unique freedom of the open doors, but he attempted to move too quickly and was out cold again before he could take any enjoyment from the trip.

Irritatingly, he feels trapped, so he scratches at the oxygen mask to begin ripping it off when his hand is stilled by Douglas’ big paw. Martin opens his eyes and takes in the concerned expression on his first officer’s face. A tiny gremlin of worry begins to pound with its miniature hammer on the base of his brain; the feeling is akin to striking solid ice with a drumstick.

“Douglas,” he mutters through the mask, “Am I….” Martin takes a deep breath, only slightly dizzy now. “Am I ok?” His hands reach out and grasp Douglas’ tightly and realizing that he made the movement on his own gives him a small bit of relief from the unnamed fear that has taken root.

Douglas shifts so that he is sitting beside Martin; when Martin attempts to move his head in that direction, he is stopped by a wall of stiff foam. Martin frowns. Douglas sighs and pats his hand.

“You only need the neck brace until the x-rays come back. There is some swelling in the tissues of your spine, though Doctor Hamilton thinks that is all just temporary, caused when the roof quite literally caved in on you.”

“Bomb?” Martin breathes.

“Indeed. Your eldest brother has already investigated and has the perpetrator in custody.” Douglas informs him. “Martin, look at me.”

Martin is staring at the ceiling, thankful to be alive. As a person of any employ with an airline of any size knows well, it is a fact that terrorists often do whatever they want without any reason or sense behind their actions. He is almost unaware of the tears slipping down his cheeks until one of them rolls against the stitched and bandaged wound on the side of his face. He hisses between his teeth and turns his watery green gaze back to his lover.

“You are going to be fine. Maybe a little sore for a while and you may not be flying for a few weeks. You were suggesting a holiday last night, if memory serves, _sir._ ” Douglas tries hard to lighten the mood, carefully threading his fingers through the sweat-dampened curls nearest Martin’s ear.

Martin flashes a weak grin in the first officer’s direction that brightens the entire room, even with the bruising and bandages. Just as makes to say something else to Douglas, the room door bangs open and Sherlock strides through, John on his heels, seething fury written in gigantic neon letters in the set of his jaw and the crease on his brow.

*

“Sherlock, NO.” John growls from behind; an ill-fated attempt to stop what he knows is coming next.

Sherlock ignores him, thinking that this all has to end now. It is enough that John willingly follows him into disaster, but John _chooses_ to do that and Martin…well, Martin is virtually an innocent here. Sherlock does not have all the facts yet, but he is ninety-eight point nine percent certain that the now-injured sibling in the hospital bed before him is there simply because he has so recently been in Sherlock’s orbit.

Martin is valiantly struggling against the bed to sit upright, though Douglas is holding one of his shoulders in an attempt to keep him from pulling out an IV line or straining any injuries. The captain is completely unaware that he is _frightened_ of Sherlock in that moment and his body is attempting to flee the scene, with or without his mind.

Sherlock knows what he has to say is going to hurt, a fact he usually ignores in favor of moving a case forward. This is no ordinary case, however, and he is fully aware that the damage he inflicts in this moment may never be undone. What they all do not know is how much it is going to hurt him.

He does it anyway. John’s voice is currently no more than background noise as he tries again to stop Sherlock from speaking, a task no lesser man would even contemplate.

“Martin, it is dangerous for you to be around me. You’ve got to stay away once you leave here. I will no longer burden you with my presence. Don’t think you need to contact me or John in any way, shape or form. Go back to living your life the way you see fit. I will not judge you and I understand completely if you hold a grudge against me for your injuries.”  He secretly admits to himself that his words will be the undoing of something beautiful and to give credit where it is due: John saw this coming.

The room is eerily quiet save for the respirations of four men: John breathes deeply as he tries hard not to strangle his partner; Douglas’s even deeper as he sizes up the situation; Sherlock’s is barely audible as he is already moving back towards the door; Martin’s gasp is shallow, a tiny bird trying hard to break free from a steel cage.

“What kind of damned fool are you, Sherlock Holmes?” Douglas stands up and grabs the top of Sherlock’s arm, the other man’s momentum spinning him on the spot so that they end up face to face.

Though less than an inch separates them in height, Douglas is a bit broader and denser muscled in the places where Sherlock is lean. They are virtually snarling at one another, misplaced anger dripping from their nonexistent fangs. Sherlock pulls back first as John stupidly grabs the other arm. Without thinking, suddenly remembering all the times he was trapped after he fell, he bows his head, bends his knees and shoves both arms backwards, using the points of his elbows like wedges and loosening the grip of both John and Douglas simultaneously. He falls almost to the floor and spins at the same time, coming up out of the reach of either one of the other two men, reminding John just how dangerous he can be when pressed. 

Martin eyes his brother warily, desperately trying to find the words that would stop him from leaving. “Sherlock, what….”

Suddenly it is all too much for Sherlock. He rises up on the balls of his feet without saying another word and then he is gone, the door swinging tiredly in his wake. Douglas returns to his seat next to Martin but John remains standing, torn between the two choices he should never have to make.

*

Two hours later, Dr. Hamilton has removed Martin’s neck brace and given him a relatively clean bill of health. He is most certainly bruised and banged up a bit, and still unable to move his legs, yet, that is the least of his problems at the moment because his heart is breaking in two. Douglas can see it, plain as day, and he is torn between beating the shit of the middle Holmes sibling and making sure he stays beside the youngest one in the name of solidarity.

Douglas had never even played with the idea that he could be _with_ Martin; as young and new as their relationship is, at the same time it feels more like simply taking another _step_ , rather than building anew. Seeing the captain injured in two completely different ways is hurting Douglas more than he can put into words. He watches Martin’s thin chest rise and fall under the hospital blanket and shifts a little so that he can stretch his legs out and rest his feet on the edge of the mattress, crossing his arms over his chest as he does so.

Right at this moment, he does not _get_ Sherlock at all. How can someone treat something –or someone—they obviously love so badly? He considers what John told him about the whole jumping from the roof bit. Perhaps this is Sherlock’s way of coping with what? Fear? Maybe Sherlock thinks he is doing the right thing in regards to Martin, but it really makes absolutely no sense.

Douglas leans his head back against the uncomfortable chair and closes his eyes, prepared for his vigil to go on for a while. He is just slipping into sleep when the door is pushed open gently.

“Douglas, I’m sorry, they did not have any of that vanilla stuff you like, so I just had them put regular milk in. I hope that’s alright.” John holds out a steaming cup of coffee to Douglas before taking the other seat at the end of the bed.

“Thank you, John.” Douglas sips the hot liquid.

“How is he doing?” John asks.

“Well, he has been asleep almost the whole time since Sherlock walked out.” Douglas frowns into the cup. “Did you have any luck finding him?”

John shakes his head. “Nope. Didn’t even look.”

Douglas gives him an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Yep. I’m getting a little sick of this shit. When he came back…actually, you probably don’t want to hear about that.” John sips from his own beverage.

“No, please by all means. Because if you don’t tell me something soon that makes me change my opinion of what he has just done to Martin, I’m going to go throttle the boy.” Douglas growls.

“Easy now, big fella.” John chuckles darkly. “Believe you me, no one understands that like I do, except perhaps maybe Mycroft. Welcome to the club, by the way.”

“I’m not so sure I’m honored, but thanks.” Douglas shifts, gently taking his feet off the mattress.

John is quiet for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, because really, it isn’t something I think about much let alone discuss with anyone. Maybe I feel like you need to understand. Let me start this way: have you ever seen Martin do something in the time you’ve known him, that seems to be the most selfish thing any human being could ever do and then _WHAM!_ You find out that in reality, the action was completely the opposite?” John’s blue eyes are clear and his expression is one of honest exasperation.

Douglas considers that for a moment, thinking of the times he has seen Martin allow Arthur to pick off his plate when Douglas knew full well it was the first square meal the captain had had in days. The times when he fought exhaustion to bring them home, letting Douglas rest in the seat beside him. For a long time, he believed Martin was doing those types of things, and more, out of a sense of misaligned pride. Now he knows that is not the truth.

The truth is that Martin genuinely cares about the people he surrounds himself with and does his best to do _right_ by them. Douglas nods his head.

John gets the picture. “Yeah, only my personal Holmes genius sometimes forgets to let people make their own decisions regarding their own lives.”

“Wait a minute. Does Sherlock believe the hotel got bombed because of us hanging out with you two?” Douglas asks.

“Apparently. You know, though, I still have no idea what really happened. Has anyone been by here in the past few hours to give you any information?”

“No. You and Sherlock were the first non-hospital visitors we’ve had.”

“That’s not right.” John crunches the empty cup in his hand. “I’m going to go and get some information. I should be back shortly. Please let captain ginger there know I’m around if he needs anything if he wakes while I’m gone.” John tilts his chin in Martin’s direction as he tugs his phone from his jeans pocket.

“Sure, will do.” Douglas turns back towards the bed as John exits the room.

*

Mycroft’s mobile phone buzzes along the desk. He grabs it between his long fingers and flips it over to see the name of the caller. Sighing, he turns back to Maria.

“I must take this call. Keep on it, you are doing fine.” He begins to moves away from the desk where Maria is typing at a fever pitch to take the call out in the corridor. As he passes, he points to a blurry picture on the monitor in front of her and she nods. Mycroft tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear as he closes the door softly.

“Good afternoon, John. What idiotic thing has my brother done this time?”


	11. Rock--Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin reflects and John reacts.

 Martin fidgets with the edge of the light blue blanket covering him, chewing on his bottom lip at the same time. He holds the television remote in the other hand, idly switching between old episodes of _Monk_ and _Top Gear_ , desperately wishing for something that would hold his attention for more than three minutes at a time—a nice documentary about WWII planes would be spectacular or even some mindless comedy, really, anything to keep his mind off his rediscovered family.

After Sherlock stormed from the room, the day has proven to be long and boring, occasionally punctuated by visits from John, the doctors and Douglas all moving in and out making telephone calls. At the moment, he is alone and fighting the urge to reach out and claw his legs from the weird prickly pain they are currently undergoing, a feeling more intense than one gets when a limb falls asleep in a stationary position for too long. The pain has grown enough that it almost eclipses the sting of Sherlock’s words from earlier. Martin has yet to be able to think about the entire debacle without wanting to hug the big idiot or knock his ass to the floor and _then_ ask him what in the hell he’s thinking.

For a few minutes, he lets himself consider the man that is John Watson and all the crap Sherlock has put him through.  Yet, in the midst of it all is one simple truth: John loves Sherlock, of that there can be no doubt. Martin is pretty sure that the reverse is true, as well, no matter how stupid the idiot genius detective comes off sometimes.

The captain then wonders if it works the same way between Douglas and himself. Sure, it does. Their stories are similar, the four of them, each pair with one person waiting on the other one to come to his senses and realize what was in front of his face. Hearts are funny things, truly, and even though their relationship is so new, Martin is more than pleased by it.

Perhaps he and Sherlock are more alike than they realize: they have both found comfort in the arms of partners older than themselves. In his mind, he vaguely wonders what this says about his family in general then on a whim, finds himself comparing Dr. Watson and First Office Richardson.

Though John’s and Douglas’ lives are completely different, as far as personality goes, both men are similar: natural care-takers, loyal and comfortable in their own skins. Above and beyond those credentials, however, are their in-born abilities to love men from the Holmes family line.

Martin relaxes against the pillow for a while, unconsciously counting the seconds until he will be back on his feet again. The whole-you-need-to-rest thing is off-putting to someone who flies planes for a hobby and spends the rest of his free time lumping boxes for ten pounds an hour. Of course now, he will be spending more time with Douglas. He ponders, then, on how much of his life he is willing to change to accommodate another person. Martin decides that losing business in order to lose sleep and hold on to the way Douglas made him feel last night? Better than skipping a few meals in order to buy himself some little luxury; he certainly will never feel guilty about it. The captain thinks he could spend all his free time caged in between those strong arms and never miss what he had--or did not have—before.

Yes, he can do this. The pain flares up again, tendrils of agony running from his feet to his hips; Martin winces, his head jerking back and somehow managing to not smack it on the wall behind the bed. He concentrates on breathing evenly and the flare subsides. He briefly flips the television back on, and instead of watching it, returns to meditating on his current physical condition, rather than the one of his heart.  

Dr. Hamilton and John both told him that it could be days or even weeks. Martin has no desire to be in hospital that long, not when there are so many things that he could be doing, least of all working. He breathes in deeply, switches off the television just when Adrian is introducing his brother to his assistant, then sits back to think about the night with Douglas at the hotel. He gently shifts his leg against the mattress, thankful for the low burn, knowing the pain is better than the alternative.

The kissing is fantastic, if the sex gets _better_ (Martin does _read_ ) he cannot even imagine how to define that word...the best thing, though, is feeling _sheltered_. Douglas is a big man, of that there is no question, and though slightly soft in the middle from his very much non-furniture moving type of work, there is something fundamentally _strong_ and _protective_ about him. Martin wishes he were there at that moment, so he could rest his head against that broad chest and listen to Douglas’ heartbeat. His eyes slip closed and he cat naps still ruminating on the amazing things they can do together when he is finally allowed to go home. The background noises of the hospital and the television are a distant hum.

Martin’s slight respite into peace and contemplation is shattered when the calf and thigh muscle on his left leg decide in tandem that attempting to kiss one another in the vicinity of his knee is a fabulous idea. He fights it as long as he can until a weak moan passes over his lips as he clutches at it, the burning sensation almost making him scream, though he manages to control his voice, he cannot hold back.   

“Oh god!” Martin rocks back and forth on the bed, causing it to squeak and rattle from the abuse. He yanks his leg upward, allowing him to rest his forehead on that knee.

Douglas hears Martin’s howl from down the corridor. He is already on the way back to his partner’s room, two plastic cups of tea in his hands. He pours on the speed, the tea preserved by the white lids pressed over the tops of the cups. Considerably worried about Martin, he deftly balances the cups as he pulls open the door.

Martin sits in his bed, his back bowed to rest his forehead against his knee. His ginger curls are a mad mess on top and soaked almost to the point of black chestnut on the nape of his neck. His fine-fingered hands are splayed over a thigh that is quaking so hard, Douglas can see it trembling, even from beneath the blanket. When the captain turns so that his cheek is against his knee, his eyes are red and tears are flowing down the both sides of his face. A single unruly curl flings itself over his forehead to settle above a green eye gone cloudy from pain.  

“Martin?” Douglas sets the cups down on the little table next to the bed.

Martin really wants to say something that will help him recover his dignity; nothing is clear in his mind except for the harsh reality of the twin spasms, he is barely registering his lover’s presence. He is finally startled back by the warmth of Douglas’ big hand on his thigh.

Douglas pulls the blanket down and pushes the leg of Martin’s pyjama bottoms up in order to carefully knead the cramping muscles. Dr. Hamilton told them that this was a very real possibility as the aftershocks wore off Martin’s body, though somehow Douglas had not considered the rapid onset of it at all; Douglas would have never left Martin alone if he had an inkling the pain would set in so fast. He flexes his fingers against the underside of Martin’s thigh. Martin lets out a low, rumbling moan and falls back against the pillow. The muscles are still trembling, but after a few moments they loosen up.

Martin whispers his thanks while Douglas pulls his right leg up and massages it, hoping to maybe stave off some of the worst of the pain. He palms the balls of Martin’s feet then runs his fingers over the arches, coaxing new sounds from the captain’s throat. When at last the other man gives a long sigh, Douglas releases his legs and moves towards his seat.

 

*

To say that John is unhappy with Sherlock right now is a bit of a misnomer. John H. Watson, former military surgeon and apparent Holmes ground-worshipper, is furious. _Two_ ridiculous disappearances in a month? This has got to stop.

When John realizes that there is a sudden hush in the small coffee shop where he has stopped on his way back to the hospital, he smiles and waves, mumbling something about being in a play and practicing his lines. He never meant to say that out loud and the way the other patrons are staring at him proves their disbelief. He sighs and drops a couple of notes on the table as a tip then heads back to the busy sidewalk.

In reality, John loves Sherlock more than any other human being he has ever loved, save perhaps for his mother. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and spots a young homeless woman on the street. She is wearing a Kelly green coat, white head scarf and tall boots at least a half size too big for her. John turns his head in her direction and she is gone, as if she was never there, but he knows better. She just gave him a pretty good idea as to where his partner has gone.

Should John track Sherlock down? John mulls the question over in his mind. No. He did finally come home the last time and there is really no reason to think he would change his _modus operandi_ when it comes to avoiding talking about how he feels. John sighs and kicks at a small pebble on the sidewalk. He suddenly has the strangest feeling and then he is falling.


	12. Hunting and Gathering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! My internet connection has been out all day so you all get an extra long chapter!

Sherlock folds himself into a gangly knot of limbs with his back up against the crumbling abutment of an old footbridge near the river, not caring about what the rusted, twisted metal is doing to his black suit jacket. He has traversed the city in a muddled haze for hours, his thoughts spinning to infinity around a single thread of _what have I done?_ The great sleuth has argued the pros and cons internally and is still nowhere closer to a decision on his own behavior than he was when he walked away from his little brother.

He walked away from his injured brother.

Away from his injured baby brother.

His brother that was injured _because_ of him. There is something nagging at him about that fact, however, the racing pulses in his brain at the moment keep obliterating it.

Sherlock sighs and rests his head against the metal beam, knocking flakes of rust into his hair that gives the ebony curls a rather frosted look. He stares out at the muddy water beyond his resting place, ignoring the bite of the rock and pea gravel underneath him. If he was prone to artistic flights of fancy he would describe his normal ordered mind with the same words that he would use to describe the river: murky and polluted. He has always been able to keep the level of sentiment in his life to a bare minimum. Well, until John. When the idea eventually sunk in that John really is _not_ going to leave him, Sherlock was finally able to accept what was slowly sprouting between them, even after _everything_. Of course, they still had not discussed his latest absence. Sherlock hangs his head and shakes it slowly; causing little bits of rusted metal and paint flakes that one can no longer tell the color of to fly about as he does it.

“I _am_ a damned fool.” He says to the river in a voice not unlike that of Douglas Richardson. When is he ever going to stop walking away when things get difficult to figure out? The thing that bothers him the most is how easy it is getting to just flounce off on his own each time. John was always the one to walk away from an argument that grew too heated, not him. He was the one who simply retreated into his mind.

Sherlock turns his head slowly, listening to the sounds of footsteps echoing beneath the bridge. He waits, tense, but nothing happens. His attention is brought back to the water and his own predicament.

Another truth: Sherlock is _not_ John. In the deepest reaches of his mind palace, where he knows himself all too well, he is aware that he is always reaching up to where John stands with his legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands relaxed at his sides and ready for _anything_. Sherlock’s mind is ridiculously quick on the uptake, but really, it is his only asset. How in the world can someone who has eschewed sentiment and relationships for so long admit, even to himself, that his bullish behavior stems from the fear of letting people close just to lose them? He growls deep in his throat then picks up a rock that he flings in the general direction of the water. The rock skips once then plops into the drink with the finality of the full stop he is always begging people to use.

Sherlock lets out another long sigh as he yanks his hands from his pockets in order to run them through his hair; fingertips touching then disregarding debris from overhead. Times like this he misses his coat; he learned the hard way that overheating for the sake of hiding is a mistake, so in the warmer months he just dons a suit jacket and makes due. _That_ mistake almost cost both John and himself their lives.

Never mind that now. One hand waves in the air as if to push the thought away. What has this mistake cost him? Or was this a mistake at all? He considers the look on John’s face that he could see clearly, even from the corner of his eye. John was what? Hurt? Disappointed? Disgusted? Caring more about  _Captain Crieff_ than Sherlock? Well, if that is the case, then John can adopt Martin as _his_ brother and everyone can live happily fucking ever after. Sherlock frowns deeply, his brow creasing over his nose in the dying sunlight weakened even further by the shadow of the bridge overhead. He grabs another flat stone without paying much attention and flings it in the path of the first one. This one does not skip but merely falls into the water; he shrugs his shoulders at the sound, only registering it as background noise. For the first time in as long as he cares to remember he wants to scream and curse and pound his head against the nearest hard surface in order to make the cyclone running amok through his brain come to a screeching halt; he closes his eyes and rests his head on his knees, arching his back so that his long body curves in on itself in a primitive effort to protect the softest parts of it.

After a time, Sherlock decides that in light of the overly emotional turmoil he is going through, for the briefest moment only, he will allow himself to think about Martin so that he can put this all behind him; he will then have the ability to go home, apologize to John profusely and then things will go back to normal for all of them. Criminals are most certainly easier to deal with than all of this, even the insane ones who drive you up the wall and commit murder in some macabre mock courting ritual because they really only want to get into your pants. He shakes his head again, hands pushing _that_ memory away so that he is envisioning a pair of photographs of his brother, one from years ago and the man he has become.

Seeing that happy, blushy, freckly face has caused memories to resurface that he was positive he had deleted. The part of his mind that will forever remain a child wraps around those faded pictures like a squid around a sperm whale. As much as he hates having _feelings_ , this is something warm and smooth like melted chocolate. It gives him a feeling of connection with something greater than himself; the connection with John is most certainly great though this is different, it is _more_. If John is _joy_ , then this is…what? How do you catalog something that you cannot even _name_? Sherlock has a hard time imagining that there is anything above what he….well, feels, with John…even when he has left him behind. It is truly unforgivable, so why does John keep forgiving him? He throws another rock, missing the way it skips perfectly across the surface of the water.

A massive white dwarf of a light brightens the dark corridors of Sherlock’s mind. In that instant, he decides that there may still be time to eat his words, no matter how bitter; maybe salvage a little of what he has foolishly attempted to destroy. Pushing himself from the ground, he brushes off his seat with both hands and makes his way towards the footpath. He is still lost in thought and strangely for him does not notice the stranger gaining on him until he is practically unconscious but still aware enough of the fact that he is being hefted bodily and carried towards a waiting black sedan, its rear door flung open to admit him. 

*

Martin doses off and on for several hours. The next time he is fully aware he can see the sun going down out the window. He pushes himself upright and swings his now dully aching legs to the side of the mattress, easing himself onto his feet slowly. Martin’s pride has suffered a serious blow, but having the ability to walk oneself to the loo gives a little of it back. Douglas is passed out in the chair next to the bed so Martin stays quiet in order to let him rest. He pulls off his t-shirt and casually tosses it into the laundry bin in the corner. Douglas had spoken to Carolyn at some point and somehow a suitcase with a few clean clothes for them both arrived that afternoon. Martin has never been so happy to see his few soft tees and trousers.

Like his soft sleeping clothes, Douglas has been wonderful throughout this whole debacle. Martin rolls his shoulders as he relieves himself, considering that he has never felt this lucky in his entire life. The whole thing certainly came from his blind side and he is still feeling the afterglow of a night spent exploring something brand new-even after a bomb and so many stress-filled hours later.

As he washes his hands, he wonders if every day will always feel this amazing. He brushes his teeth and considers the best way to get Douglas onto the narrow hospital bed beside him. Turning off the tap after rinsing, he hears the vague sounds of voices behind the door. Thinking perhaps John has finally returned, Martin opens the door and is greeted with the sight of a very large man in a very expensive navy blue suit blocking the entry (and exit) with his entire body.

The top of the man’s shiny bald head stops about three inches above the top of the door and his hands are the size of orange crates; the crisp white shirt collar probably remains perfectly straight around his thick lack-of-neck due to fear rather than starch. His expression brooks no argument; Martin is pretty sure the big guy is carrying at least one weapon under the black suit jacket that looks like it could be used to make a tent for a bunch of boy scouts. The overall picture is a mix of the grim reaper and an ex-sniper turned cop. There is no doubt in Martin’s mind that this man could squash him into a pulp by simply flexing the tip of one of those sausage-sized fingers.

Martin gulps.

Douglas catches sight of Martin standing apprehensively on his own on the threshold of the loo, pleased at his quick recovery. He watches those nervous green eyes rake over the massive stranger and Douglas can see the instant Martin starts to worry. The thin, half-naked man looks so much smaller next to their visitor, seeming to almost be propping himself up on the doorframe that Douglas wants to wrap him up in his arms and never let go. Any sudden movement around King Kong, though, would probably be a mistake.

“Martin, look at me.” Douglas orders quietly, using a tone he knows will get the captain’s attention.

Martin’s startled gaze is pulled from the giant in the suit—why is he wearing sunglasses inside?—to Douglas, with his outwardly calm expression. Martin takes a deep breath and decides to trust his first officer as he always has done.

With that sorted, he asks, “Douglas, what is...” God, he hates the stutter. He takes another deep breath and almost whispers, “What is going on?”

Douglas nods, the action releasing Martin to walk back to the bed where he perches on the edge uncertainly, resting the tips of his bare toes against the cool linoleum. Douglas finally breaks and takes the chance to rest next to the smaller man, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. King Kong does not move from his spot, except to tap at a practically invisible earpiece. When he mutters, his voice is so deep and so low that Martin cannot decipher a single word except at the end of the conversation.

“Yes, sir.” Big and meaty says clearly.

Martin and Douglas share a look.

“You will both come with me.” The giant mutters between thin lips. Martin thinks the man has more muscles in his jaw than he has in his entire body. He knows he is powerless to resist, so he just nods his agreement.

Douglas moves first, handing Martin a clean tee and a pull-over from the suitcase on the floor. Martin throws them on hastily, then accepts his worn trainers and a clean pair of socks. Douglas digs around the suitcase a bit more and finally comes up with a comb and a hairbrush. He holds both items in Martin’s direction. The captain eyes them warily then decides the comb is probably a lost cause and grabs the brush, his fingers passing gently over Douglas’. Douglas nods and Martin moves back into the bathroom.

Through the partially-open door, Martin can hear Douglas attempt to question their guard? Their ride home? He is still unsure. The man never answers in anything more than a grunt. Finally giving up on taming his curls until he can properly wash and condition them properly, (the only luxury he ever allows himself) Martin makes to rejoin the others.

The big man has his huge hands wrapped around the handles of a wheelchair that appears quite dainty by comparison. Martin finds himself gulping again, thinking that maybe King Kong is just going to lift him and the entire contraption and carry them to whatever their next destination may be.

“Martin, it’s fine. I have a suspicion he’s here on orders, and his orders don’t seem to include smashing you, or myself, to bits.” Douglas eyes the man with a look Martin cannot define; it seems to be a mix between wary and warning.

“Come on, let’s go.” Douglas grabs the suitcase and gestures towards the wheelchair. After a moment’s pause, Martin settles into it easily, resting his feet on the flat pads. He does not relax, though, all of his nerves on guard against the strange behemoth pushing the chair as if it is a bag of feathers. Douglas walks beside him, keeping pace with the stranger’s long strides. Martin regards him from the wheelchair, quietly savoring the stolen moment where Douglas seems to be unaware of the observation. They glide through the corridors and past staff and security, no one taking the slightest interest in them.

It does not take long before they are out the sliding glass doors and sitting in a large, black car that is idling by the curb. Douglas sees that Martin is comfortable on the wide backseat before handing off the suitcase to their shepherd, who swings it into the boot and closes the lid in one even movement. Martin has only a few seconds to marvel at his distinct lack of paperwork before they are moving smoothly through traffic towards an unknown destination.

*

“Douglas.” Martin asks when it seems enough time has passed. They have rearranged themselves so that the smaller man is reclined with his back against the car and his legs hang over Douglas’ left thigh.

Douglas has been casually massaging Martin’s calves through his thin trousers, thoroughly enjoying the contented sounds coming from Martin as his hands knead the well-cut muscles. It is a wonderful thing to be useful and Douglas has had entirely too much downtime lately. It is odd that he does not miss flying as much as when Martin is not around. Right now, though, he wants to fly in another manner altogether.

“Yes.” Douglas purrs, using his fingers to work an especially rough knot from Martin’s right calf. All thought of asking questions flies from Martin’s head.

Martin shudders and smiles at Douglas. Douglas beams back at him and slowly draws his hand up Martin’s leg to grasp at his inner thigh where he squeezes gently, just enough pressure that Martin knows _exactly_ what his partner is thinking. The captain’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he blushes furiously.

Martin looks from the deep brown eyes full of desire in front of him to the back of the driver’s head and back again. “Uh, Douglas, really, you know I would but…” Heat begins to pool in his groin and he is fairly certain that his dick is doing its best to squirm out of his trousers on its own.

“Oh, captain, my captain.” Douglas scoots closer and tilts his head down to catch the lobe of Martin’s ear between his teeth. Martin gasps and tries to hide it with a weak chuckle. Douglas scrapes his teeth down the side of Martin’s neck and Martin gives in with a low growl of his own. He turns in place and spreads his legs so that he is straddling Douglas’ thighs. Their mouths settle together with a crash when the tip of Martin’s tongue probes the underside of Douglas’ upper lip and they roll their hips in tandem. The first officer reaches up to bracket Martin’s face with his hands as he slides them into the soft hair at his temples and pushes their mouths closer together. Martin makes a sound somewhere between a purr and a snarl and all Douglas can think of is a sturdy ginger tom basking in the attention duly paid to him.  

When Martin arches his back in order to rock his straining erection against Douglas’ lap, it is proof that he is firmly committed.

Martin’s chuckle fools no one and absolutely does not conceal the sound of passion; silently, their body guard/driver/whatever he is, raises the soundproof partition between himself and his passengers. A tiny unseen smile teases the corner of his lips; the boss will be pleased that not only is he bringing his charges in together but also conscious. It has been a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 Jan 2014--I've done a bit of poking and prodding at Chapters 1-12 today, not changing but rather adding a few little touches here and there. Like all writers, I guess I'm never completely satisfied! There's a certain *feel* that I am trying for here and the little touch-ups are to keep it going. (In my mind at least.)
> 
> Point being, if you think you've read something and you go back and look and it is a little different, just know that you aren't crazy. 
> 
>  
> 
> Or not much, anyway!
> 
> Of course, I'm the engineer on the crazy train, so that is a moot point. Thanks, everyone!


	13. Off Side of the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get to dress up and weirdness ensues. And they still haven't had dinner.

John opens his eyes to find himself lying on a large canopied bed. He is still dressed, except for his distinct lack of either socks or shoes. Taking in the room around him, John registers all of the normal things: night tables, lamps, a rather heavy-looking desk with what appears to be a top-of-the-line computer sitting on it. On the right side is a less fancy door that John assumes is the loo. He gets to his feet slowly, wincing when his knowledgeable fingers find the knot on his temple above his ear. Whoever hit him knew exactly what they were doing.

John wanders about the room, finally stopping in front of the large window where he tries to open the heavy drapes; he tugs on the pull rope but nothing happens. It seems strange to be unable to even look at the window. He shrugs his shoulders and turns away from the drapes to sit down in the chair at the desk. He tries to ignore the ridiculously old-fashioned wallpaper with the print so loud it makes his head throb even harder. With a poke at the keyboard, the computer flashes to life but the little yellow flashing triangle tells him there is no internet connection. So much for that idea.

He scans the room again, trying to make a guess at where he has been sequestered. Apparently this is not the run-of-the-mill criminal kidnapping as this room is a far cry above the basements and warehouses he has found himself waking after a knock on the head in the past. And he is not tied up with anything, so that is a plus, too. He gingerly rubs his temples with his fingers: two good hard hits to the head in a little over a day is probably not so good for health, especially when he was worn down to the quick physically and emotionally prior to receiving them. When he opens his eyes again, they are drawn to the little clock on the computer. He can scarcely believe ten hours have passed since he left the hospital.

The hospital! Martin! John barely has time to register those thoughts before there is a sharp rap on the door. He crosses to it to find it locked from the outside. There is the scrape of a key in the lock and he steps back in order to let whoever it is into the room, doubly conscious that he is unarmed. His heart is pounding in his chest and he is already on the alert by the time the visitor steps through.

A tall, thin man dressed in a crisply pressed black suit enters the suite. He gives John a curt, polite nod and thrusts a stack of material in John’s direction. Without any idea what else to do, John takes what turns out to be clothing.

“Doctor Watson, you are to be presentable for dinner in an hour. The bathroom is fully stocked with whatever you may need. You should find the clothes will fit you splendidly. Good day, sir.” The man spins formally on his heel and marches right back out. The latch snicks closed and John can hear the tumblers of the lock falling into place.

Well then. He unfolds the clothes to find a mint green dress shirt, navy blue jacket and trousers to match, clean pants and clean socks. Strangely, there are no shoes and somehow he is unsurprised to see that everything is in his size. He shrugs and decides it is probably for the best to go along with the plan, so he leaves the clothes on the bed and walks into the loo to clean up.

John glances in the mirror as he flips on the water. A thin trickle of dried blood has left a rusty trail down the side of his face; it seems he managed to scratch himself when he fell. Or was pushed. Or whatever the hell happened that he did not see coming before he was knocked out cold and brought _here_. Anyway, now he has a match for the shiner round his eye that is starting to look more grey than purple. He probes the bruise with a finger and finds that is still sore, but not as bad as it was yesterday.

When the water is hot enough, he steps into the stall to find that yes, it is truly stocked. Three different types of shampoo and conditioner, two bottles of shower gel and a single bar of plain white soap certainly exceed his needs. John shrugs again and gets down to the business of getting clean.

*

When the car stops in front of the grandest manor house Martin has seen outside of television, he almost forgets to breathe. Douglas peers over the captain’s shoulder and chuckles when his eyes fall on the posh red brick house. True to form, there is hunter green ivy growing up one wall and the shudders around the windows have been painted with a black paint so glossy that they appear to be glass from this distance. The massive front door is stark white save for the brand-new looking brass hardware. Douglas does not wait for the driver to open the door, instead pulling it open and almost causing Martin to tumble to the ground. Douglas catches him as he falls forward with his arm around Martin’s slim waist. Martin offers a small smile and gets out of the car slowly, still a bit wobbly from his ordeal. Douglas follows suit and reaches out to grab the suitcase from their driver but the big man merely smirks and gestures towards the house.

Douglas places his hand on the small of Martin’s back, not to hold him back but to remind the captain that he is there beside him. They walk up the flagstone walk, Douglas discovering that he likes the look of the well-groomed lawn and tiny violets that line the walkway. He even manages to snag a second to lean down and smell one of the perfect red roses growing on one of the pair of bushes that bracket the white door. Their host of the moment gives him a nasty look but Martin just grins behind his hand at Douglas’ cheek in the face of the unknown. They enter the house together and stand in the sunlit foyer in awe as the mysterious house begins to unfold around them.

*

True to his word, the man that John half-jokingly wants to call ‘Alfred’ knocks on the door exactly an hour later. John is just slipping into the navy jacket and is admiring the tasteful silver embroidery lining the outside of the collar and cuffs. He decides that he really does not dress up enough; part of him wishes Sherlock could be here to see this. On the other hand, John is still unsure of what he is walking into, but he is starting to feel like he has blundered into a real-life rendition of the _Godfather_ or perhaps _Alice in Wonderland_.

When the butler finally opens the door (what else could he be?) John greets him with a polite smile. The man’s eyes sweep over John’s frame to stop at his face. The expression he offers John is one of pride, almost as if he was unsure John was _worthy_ when he brought him the clothing.

What a weird thing to consider, John thinks as the man says calmly, “This way, please, sir.” John nods and follows him. The butler stops him just outside the doorway and points at the floor. John looks down at the short row of three pairs of shoes.

“They are all your size. Please choose the style.” John ignores the oxblood pair, instead choosing between either the highly polished or less polished black ones. After a few seconds, he chooses the pair that is highly polished as they remind him of his dress uniform. He slips his feet into them, ties the ties and when he stands up his back is straight and he feels like he could take on anything.

“Excellent choice, sir.” The butler gestures down the long hallway and John follows his lead. The man’s voice is smooth, his accent cultured and controlled as if he is unused to speaking much but when he does, apparently he is accustomed to being obeyed.

John discovers that the shoes fit so well it is almost like they were _made_ for him. He steers his mind away from that uncomfortable thought, instead choosing to take in the plush carpet beneath his feet. The butler soon stops in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors decorated with shiny brass fittings. Idly, John wonders if there is someone on staff who gets paid to do nothing but polish things.

The butler pushes open the doors and steps back so that John is looking in on a formal dining room; in the center on a slightly raised dias sits a dining table that he is sure must be two hundred years old. Gleaming glasses, stemware and silverware are set out for four; the plates are solid white with gold rims and a bottle of wine rests in a bucket of ice beside the table. John looks up at the huge chandelier on the ceiling and almost falls over, thinking there is no way he is looking at real crystal like he thinks he is. Maybe this really is what Alice found at the end of the tunnel. Unlike a tunnel in the earth, the room is reltively warm and he is comfortable in his dressy outfit without being too hot. 

John turns to ask the butler about the other three place settings only to find that the man has vanished, no doubt locking the door behind him. John walks around the room, noting the paintings on the walls and the overall décor before pulling out a chair and settling into it. There are four padded chairs and they are all sitting at the center of the table so that each side has a pair.

With some satisfaction, he spies a small refrigerator in the corner so he gets up to examine it. He finds several bottles of ale and lager. John happily chooses a dark ale, cracks the cap and moves back to the table to await whatever is going to happen next, sincerely hoping the excellent brew he is drinking has not secretly been poisoned with some potion that will make him grow, shrink or see long rows of code in neon green against black. At this point, if he sees a caterpillar smoking out of a bong while resting on a huge mushroom, he may just join in because he figures this whole situation cannot possibly get any _crazier_.

*

John is left alone in the dining room for a little over fifteen minutes. In that time he has uncovered exactly nothing that gives away where he is or what he is doing here. Feeling more and more like Alice by the minute, he is startled from the contemplation of his second lager bottle when the doors once again creak open.

Stepping over the threshold in sync are Martin and Douglas. Martin has removed the bandage from his face and the scrape is a vivid, but healing, slash against his freckly skin. He is dressed similarly to John, in the same navy suit with silver embroidery, except that the dress shirt underneath is a very pale teal that makes the emerald color of his eyes pop. He has managed to tame his curls and the product has darkened the color somewhat, giving him the air of 1950s movie star. Like John, Martin has left the first two buttons undone and does not wear a tie. John notes that Martin chose the less-polished shoes.

Douglas’ suit is solid charcoal grey and the shirt beneath the jacket is white with thin black stripes. As are the others, he wears no tie but his jacket is unbuttoned and hangs to his sides to show the gold buckle on the black leather belt around his waist. John knows that without a doubt their unseen host has provided Douglas with gold cufflinks as well.

“Well, now that we are all dressed up, have we anywhere to go?” Douglas snarks as he does a little pirouette, the light from the chandelier catching on his polished shoes. He moves gracefully, a surprise in a man that too often seems larger-than-life.

“It is good to see you, too. Any idea what is happening here?” John asks as Martin and Douglas take the two seats facing his. Martin is staring around the room, his eyes darting from the plates to the walls to the ceiling and back again. He looks completely out of place but is obviously no stranger to formal manners as he unbuttons his jacket when he takes his seat, settling against the cushion firmly without dropping into it.

Douglas gives John a quick rundown on how they came to this place, skipping over the sex in the car part, which Martin wordlessly divulges by turning beet red and staring at the same spot on the wall for thirty seconds without blinking. John gives him a warm smile when Martin finally turns back to the conversation and tells them his story.

“We were a little worried when you didn’t come back to the hospital. Douglas thought that maybe you caught up with Sherlock and forgot to let us know.” Martin says quietly, holding up one of the forks and inspecting it closely. Like everything else in this place, the silver holds a shine that would have made any drill instructor break down in tears.

“No, Martin, I would never do that to you.” John tells him, wondering who in the world…oh. Well, he does know. He sets the empty bottle on the table and it clinks against one of the plates gently.

Martin makes eye contact with John. “I know.”

“That’s good. Really. Because there are not too many people out there you can trust, and right now it looks like it’s me and Douglas.” John turns to Douglas, who nods his head.

“He’s right, Martin. Looks like we are in this together.” He takes Martin’s hand under the table and squeezes it. Martin squeezes back.

“Good then. Now here we are all set for dinner, wonder when the meal will show up?” John queries.

“Well, there must be someone else coming. There are four places here…” Martin trails off when he sees Douglas preparing to open the wine bottle with the silver opener lying beside the bucket.  

Douglas never looks up from his task. “Martin, its fine. Since our host seems to be absent, I thought I could play the part for a bit. I am dressed for it, you see.” He shakes his bum a little in Martin’s direction and Martin giggles. With a loud pop the cork comes out and Douglas pours for John and Martin. John takes in Martin’s curious reaction and a quickly hidden look of longing from Douglas and understands in an instant.

“Douglas, I do believe there were some sodas in that little ice box over there.” John points.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Douglas pushes his chair back and grabs a soda from the refrigerator. He returns to the table and instead of sitting directly back down lays one hand on Martin’s shoulder. The younger man looks up at him and Douglas gifts the captain with a chaste kiss on the lips. Martin blushes, Douglas looks like the cat that got the cream _and_ the budgie in the cage and John is torn between thrilled for them and the heavy feeling of loneliness that is slowly creeping into his chest. He hasn't felt Sherlock's absence so sharply since...right. No sense in thinking about that now. He turns his attention from the tabletop and back to the other men.

Douglas pats Martin’s shoulder and sits back down next to him. He snaps open the soda can and pours the liquid into his wine glass, finishing it off with a couple of ice cubes from the wine bucket. He lifts the glass up and the others follow suit.

“To getting out of here alive or at least dying in style!” Douglas’ silky smooth voice carries through the room. They clink their glasses together and drink. After a couple beats of silence, Douglas looks at John.

“John, do you ever play any word games?” The first officer asks while giving Martin a wink.

 

*

The three of them are into their third round of Mixed-Up Television Programme Characters That Fit when there is a hollow thud beyond the dining room door and it is shoved open. Martin is just about to offer Adrian Monk in place of Doctor House for second place when the sound of a something heavy being dropped in the floor makes them all look up.

John is feeling quite mellow with two lagers and two glasses of wine and surrounded by this posh place so he stands up in time to see Sherlock get shoved through the door where he crashes to the floor and pushes himself upward to finally wind up on his hands and knees. For an instant, John’s id and superego play a tug of war. On the one hand, he is still incredibly angry at his partner, but on the other hand seeing him down on the plush wine-colored carpet like that is doing strange (and opposing) things to both his libido and his inner caretaker. John sets his now-empty glass down and walks to Sherlock, extending his hand.

Sherlock remains on the floor, his hands firmly planted, head hanging down. John sees the damp curls and an unfamiliar black jacket, takes in the scent of a freshly-washed consulting detective and drops to the floor beside him. Later on John will consider that it was the wine talking, but the very next thing he does is grab Sherlock’s head so that his body has to follow and mashes their lips together.

Up at the table, Douglas cheers and claps his hands while Martin wolf-whistles and taps his butter knife against his glass.  

When they finally come up for air, Sherlock is sitting on his knees with his hands around John’s shoulders. John is blown away by the combined expression of regret and fondness in his partner’s green eyes. They rest their foreheads together as they kneel on the fancy carpet in the ridiculously formal dining room in their strange clothes, observed by Martin and Douglas.

John stands and holds out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it and gets to his feet. Like Martin, his shoes are matte black and made of soft leather. His ebony jacket has the tiniest hint of red at the corners of the collar and around the cuffs that match the blood-red shirt he is wearing. John grabs Sherlock’s arm and holds the cuff up for closer inspection: the hint of scarlet turns out to be tiny red roses woven into the black fabric. John runs a finger over them to find that they stand out slightly from the cuff.

“Sherlock, what is going on here?” He asks, tearing his eyes away from the design. Sherlock’s head is moving, eyes roving about the room. Side-by-side they step up to the table.

“Apparently, someone went to great lengths to assure that we match the décor.” Sherlock offers. He gestures towards the chair John has been sitting in and pulls it out for him, an uncommonly polite thing for him to do. John decides that everything has been so strange today that there is no point in mentioning it.

Martin nods and says very timidly, “We do, don’t we.”

They all look around, really seeing now. The paintings John noticed earlier are filled with roses in various colors, though it is the red ones that stand out the most. The stems are alternately painted mint green, like John’s shirt, or the light teal of Martin’s. Sherlock’s shirt matches the carpet while Douglas’ clothes fit in well with the cushions on the chairs, the drapes over the windows, and even the painted edges of the handles on all of the silverware.

Sherlock shakes it off like water off a duck’s back. He has not yet taken his seat; instead he paces around the room searching for an exit or even a tiny clue that will tell him where they are. John sees very clearly how uncomfortable Martin is, probably because Sherlock hurt him so badly. “Sherlock,” he begins just as they hear the sound of a key clicking in the lock of the door again. Sherlock’s attention is immediately on the person entering the room. It is almost as if no one else exists. By proxy, John, Martin and Douglas fall completely silent.

A tall, well-built, mature woman glides into the room. She wears a shimmery dress of a filmy material that shines and reflects the light from the chandelier as she moves. Her dark brown hair is fashionably piled high atop her head and they can clearly see how it curls at the tips. The woman casts intense cobalt blue eyes on the three men at the table and gives them a slight nod that is more the twitch of her chin than anything else. She wears several dainty gold chains around her neck and wrists; fine gold hoops dangle from her ears. Her makeup is so flawless that none of them can guess her age, from the glossy scarlet lipstick to the peacock blues and greens around her eyes. Without thinking, Martin, John and Douglas stand up from their seats.

The elegant woman ignores them, however, and moves so that she is fully facing Sherlock. John watches how his lover takes two steps backwards from the woman who is easily as tall as Sherlock. His face blanches and his eyes widen so much that the emerald irises are almost completely hidden by the whites. Even stranger still for a man so often fully collected, so fully in control of his own emotions, he begins to shake like he has seen a Hellhound in the flesh.

For an instant John is forcefully reminded of the day Sherlock returned after the fall, because finally, it seems Sherlock is learning what it is like to see the shade of a person standing in front of you breathing, walking…a person you believed dead that has impossibly rejoined the living.


	14. Sort It, Sherlock

From their shared workspace in between the computers, the monitors and the mobile phones, Mycroft and Maria work steadily as the day moves into night. Occasionally, one or the other will stop long enough for a restroom break and to grab something to drink. A stack of files has slowly collected on the floor next to them as the day has worn on, each one opened and read then replaced or added to a similar, but much smaller, stack on the desk. Marie rubs her eyes with the back of her hands before she jots down some notes on a pad in front of her. Her eyes move between the monitor in front of her and back to the notepad; when she is satisfied she jabs the pen into the band holding her hair up in a hastily-made bun. Beside her, Mycroft has sat back in his chair and has both hands cradled behind his head. Over the last hour he has gone from rubbing his neck to running those hands through his thin auburn hair. The fact that he can do that and not even mess it up drives her absolutely batshit crazy, and not the good kind, either. Of course, being alone with him for this many hours would probably do that to most people. Good thing they have not really been completely _alone_ all this time, then.

Several of Mycroft’s associates have dropped by throughout the afternoon and evening, including Anthea, who managed to bring them a rather lavish takeaway meal without ever moving her eyes from her Blackberry. They are working hard to obtain their objective, though Mycroft is growing more and more irritated with each passing minute of what he is considering his own failure of epic proportions.

“They have to be here somewhere!” He hisses between his teeth and slams a fist against the desk. The keyboard rattles and Marie steals herself against the oncoming tirade. Luckily for her, Mycroft has calmed himself already and is pushing his chair away from the desk. She stops typing long enough to look up at him. He returns her questioning gaze with an eyebrow arch.

“There is nothing more I can do here tonight. I am going upstairs where I am going to unwind and relax for a few hours. Unless there is a break in our collective schemes, please do not interrupt me.”

“What do you have in mind?” Marie asks, letting the _sir_ remain unsaid, quirking her lips upward suggestively.

Mycroft frowns and grabs at his tie, loosening it and taking a deep breath. He looks down at his hands. “I am thinking I need something warm to wrap my hands around.” Mycroft actually smiles then and gives her a nod as he moves towards the door.

Marie laughs; the sound echoing around the walls. _Warming, alright_ , she mutters to herself, _methinks he’s gonna’ wrap those pretty paws around a certain employee of New Scotland Yard._ She immediately quashes the thought before it really gets started, though, because, to her, that’s just another _good looking bloke_ she is never going to get. With a sigh she returns to her job of staring at thousands of shots from CCTVs all over the city searching for certain individuals and half-way daydreaming about being back in the field.

*

“You stupid, stupid boy!” The woman points at Sherlock, metaphorically pinning him to the spot. He stands there with his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes still huge. She advances on him slowly; with each step forward, he moves backward until he runs out of room. He stands in front of her, uncharacteristically still, his expression lax and eyes tight; he has somehow forgotten how _lethal_ he can be when necessary. He looks like a ten-year old boy caught with his hands where they should not have been.

From across the room, John can even see the way his partner’s hands are trembling; he is sure that if he could feel the back of Sherlock’s neck, it would be soaking wet with sweat above the red collar of his shirt. Martin and Douglas share a look between them and then turn back to the strange little play happening before their eyes.

“Why do you have to be so stupid? I _know_ you were not raised that way. Idiot.” The woman’s dress makes a soft shush against her bare legs with each step. She keeps her hand outstretched until she reaches him, then switches to poking him in the chest with one long, red fingernail, emphasizing each word with another poke.

After a moment of slack-jawed staring, Sherlock finally closes his mouth. He grabs her hand in his palm to still her movement with his fingers. They stare at one another in a tableau that strongly reminds John of the day Sherlock came home. It has been long enough now that the pain is mostly a memory, but sometimes it raises its ugly head and stabs him right in the heart.

Martin hears John gasp and reaches across the table to tap against John’s empty wineglass. “John.” He whispers.

It takes a few seconds for John to tear his attention from Sherlock. He shakes his head and looks back at Martin. “Yeah?” He asks noting how similar Martin’s voice can be to Sherlock’s at the oddest of moments.

“John, I don’t think she is…” Martin’s words are cut off when Sherlock literally growls and launches himself forward like a leopard pouncing on a kill. The woman’s knees buckle and she hits the floor hard.

Without thinking, John is out of his seat and down the step. The next thing he realizes is that he has hold of Sherlock’s waist from behind and is pulling him off of the woman. Douglas is giving her a hand off the floor while Martin stands between them, unsure of what to do next.

Two heartbeats pass and then there are two men on either side of them. John recognizes the butler and Martin recognizes the bear of a man who brought Douglas and himself to this strange party.

The woman straightens herself out, tugging down her sleeves and patting at her hair. Her breathing is even.

“Thank you, Alistair and Wendell. We will not need you at this time.” She gives them a little wave. “Apparently the _idiot_ mistook me for someone else.” She scoffs loudly; John is sure it is to mock Sherlock.

“All of you sit down.” She walks towards the table and stops at the head of it, standing where a chair would normally be. Martin and Douglas return to their seats while John half-drags Sherlock back to his. Sherlock is shaking with either rage or fear, John is unsure, though he knows he is about to find out.

“Now. May we start off on a better note?” The woman asks. They nod silently, except for Sherlock who just glares at her.  “Fine, then. Before we start with the reason why you are all here, I’m going to give you a chance to work out your idiocy.” She turns flashing blue eyes to Sherlock and then Martin. Martin gulps. Sherlock stares, saying nothing, but his jaw muscles tighten as he grinds his molars.

“Idiot boy. Stop that disgusting habit.” She points at Sherlock again. By some miracle, he stops, going eerily still. John rests a hand on his knee, a reminder that they are in this together. The only response he receives is a slight head tilt, but it is enough.

“Let me start with you.” She gazes at Martin. “Stand up, Martin Crieff.”

Martin stands, resting his fingers on the table. “You probably do not know me. I only saw you a few times when you were an infant. Being who you are, however, makes you just as interesting as _him_ , all things considered.” She gestures at Martin’s seat and he drops back to it.

“You. Idiot. Stand up.” Sherlock rises slowly and crosses his arms over his chest, setting his face into its most petulant expression.

“You are the cause of all of _this_.” She hisses between her very white teeth. A tiny smidge of lipstick is caught on the right incisor, making her seem much more human than she was a few minutes ago. “You and your stupid little stunt. _Oh look at me, I’m dead!_ ” She snarls, leaning against the table. “ _Oh wait, no I’m not! Ha!_ ” John starts to get up and get between them as she throws her hands up in the air.

“Do not get up, John Watson.” She says in a quiet murmur that seems to promise pain. He stares at her lean face, high cheekbones and well-made lips and actually considers several ways he could take her out, though maybe not before her pair of henchmen would be back in the dining room to take care of him. John remains in his seat.

“Good, it seems you all know to follow orders. Especially _you,_ Douglas Richardson.” She never looks at Douglas, never takes her eyes off Sherlock. Douglas makes the wise choice and says nothing.  “Great. Now that I have your attention, the first matter is to make sure Idiot Boy here,” she nods in Sherlock’s direction, finally looking at Martin and chewing on her pinkie nail. “makes up with you, Ginger.” Martin blushes.

“Do not worry your pretty little head too much, my boy. He is an idiot, but he does know which side his toast is buttered on. So here’s the deal, I give you all what? Two hours? Three?” She thinks about it, tapping her fingernail against her teeth. “Let’s say three. You get three hours to eat and be jolly and get yourselves ready to play. At that time, and only if everyone in this room is on speaking terms with each other…only then will you find out what happens next.”

She moves away from the table and back towards the door, and then stops halfway between. “However, if the idiot boy has not come to his senses in that time then I will take matters in my own hands…and trust me, you will not enjoy that nearly as much. So here it is: get prepared, get together and see if you can outwit me. Your time starts now.”

The woman pulls the doors open and turns to face them one more time. “You know what needs to be done. Sort. It. Sherlock.” And with that, she is gone.

For a few minutes there is silence.

A hidden door beside the little refrigerator opens and several wait staff enter, their arms laden with bowls and platters. They set the table mutely and swiftly. They all work efficiently and before long the four men are staring at more food than any of them could possibly eat in a day, let alone a few hours.

Douglas is the first to break the quiet. He clears his throat. “Well, gentleman, shall we?”

*

They tuck into their food gratefully; even Sherlock fills a plate and works his way through it. As if the fact that this woman knows all their names and clothing sizes is not extraordinary enough, apparently the staff also knows which foodstuffs to tempt each of them with.

John is working his way through a thick shepherd’s pie while Douglas is happily crunching fried prawns; Martin and Sherlock are both picking at potato pancakes. There is a rare beef roast on the sideboard that John has been eyeing, as he is finding himself suddenly overwhelmed with hunger. Bowls of mashed potatoes, several varieties of vegetables and even a platter of fresh fruit beckon to them.

A third bottle of wine makes the rounds until finally John sits back and pats his stomach. Douglas has already set his silverware down and is resting with his seat tilted back onto two legs. Sherlock is half-dozing on John’s shoulder while Martin is mopping up some brown gravy with a thick slab of bread. John can’t help but think that the poor man needs more meals like this.

And that’s when it happens. John is feeling satiated, full and at ease with the world when he really starts _watching_ Martin. Though the brothers have been apart for so long, there are many of the little things about them that are unbelievably similar. Martin’s long fingers are as beautiful as Sherlock’s as he gently pats the gravy and tenderly bites at the sopping bread. John fights the urge to reach up and kiss the drop of gravy from his plush bottom lip. Martin licks at one thumb and when his eyes, the same clear crystalline jade of his brother’s, only less intense, when those eyes flicker to John’s the room begins to spin.

John watches as Martin’s ginger hair becomes an ebony storm of tendrils dancing about his face in true Art Nouveau style. Martin’s freckles dot Sherlock’s fine features and John reaches out to touch, just to see if they stand out in sharp relief…but his fingers fall short of their goal. Martin/Sherlock gazes at him with _those eyes_ and he can feel the other man reaching for him across the table. John holds his hand out, hoping the promise on his face is the answer to the question he sees on the blushing countenance before him.

Sherlock, for all of his self-possessed posturing is still rather demure in the bedroom. He will often initiate sex but enjoys letting John take control. Martin, with his obsessive determination to whatever he puts his mind to, he would be something else entirely. A little whisper of jealously snaps into John’s mind, telling him in no uncertain terms that _Douglas is a lucky man. Lucky, lucky, lucky_.

A cold shiver starts at the base of John’s neck and works its way down his spine and he is naked on his back in some posh hotel somewhere with velvet drapes and satin sheets and Martin is riding his cock like a cowboy. Ever thrust of the captain’s slim hips shoves John further up into his body and rocks the delicate iron headboard against the wall. Martin is begging for release, his own cock in his hand while the other is pushing against John’s chest. His ginger curls are slick with sweat and his beautiful mouth is half-open, panting John’s name. Martin is bucking above John in his pleasure and all John can do is grasp his ass and hang on for dear life. Martin throws his head back, exposing that long, fine neck that John manages to sink his teeth into the soft flesh and when he finally comes, the hot liquid spurting over John’s chest burns like fire and then John is screaming through his own release and Martin is jerking his hips and John is almost crying from the sensation of too much as Martin slams back down onto him…

John shakes his head and is back at the table, Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and no one seeming to notice his daydream. Guilt sits heavily on his too-full stomach as he meets Martin’s eyes. Martin simply frowns and looks at him strangely but then Douglas says something about ‘Sleeping beauty’ and John smiles. He reaches around so that his arm rests on Sherlock’s shoulders and holds him close, waiting for him to wake and use that wonderful mind to get them out of here. John still has many questions for the detective, but they can wait until he gets a little rest. Yes. That is a scrumptious plan indeed. Rest.


	15. Nightmares

Douglas is plastered. It has been so many years since anything with alcohol has passed through his lips that the tiny bit of wine he licked from Martin’s mouth seems to have gone straight to his head. He is fighting the strangest urge to stand up on the table and dance an Irish jig, instead he decides that reclining back in his chair comfortably is the best way to be at the moment. He does not want Martin to see him this way; he fears that the other man will think Douglas has slipped back into destructive habits. Douglas is in a good place right now, sitting back and watching everyone, thinking how they all look so pleased, though Sherlock is practically drooling on John’s shoulder; he’s so out of it. There simply cannot be anything wrong with being mellow once in a while, because, after all, he really did not _drink_ the wine.

Douglas smiles at John, noting that the doctor’s blue eyes have gone slightly hazy. “John, is he alright?”

John grins lazily at him but does not answer. Douglas shrugs and takes a long sip of his sparkling grape juice, pleased that someone knew well enough to offer the non-alcoholic beverage choice. As strange as this entire scenario has been, he feels oddly at home here; he might even go so far as to say he feels _welcome_. Douglas returns his glass to the table and runs a hand through his wavy brown hair. He rolls his hand through the fine strands, enjoying the silky feel of it and cataloging the _silver_ ones as they slip through his fingers. The first officer sighs and turns towards Martin who is staring at his brother asleep on John’s shoulder as if he has never seen the man sleep before. Douglas works hard to suppress a giggle that comes on the tail end of a picture that pops up into his brain of Martin poking at Sherlock with a stick like a little boy poking at a bear in a cage. For some reason, that is the funniest thing he has ever thought of.

Douglas doubles over, rocking his chair off balance, causing him to slide boneless onto the floor rather than fall. The wood under his back is cool but he worries what it is doing to his borrowed clothing. Or were they _given_? He is quite unsure about all of that, it’s all a muddle in his brain anyway.  Douglas stares up at the table for a minute then scoots sideways so that he is parallel with Martin’s chair. He casually reaches up under the table and efficiently removes one of Martin’s shoes and a sock, giggling. Everything is _so_ funny right now that it is ridiculous.

In the gloom under the table, Martin’s long pale toes look positively marvelous. Douglas reaches out with his fingers to caress the digits softly and Martin jerks, but only for a second. Douglas curls his hand around the ball of the captain’s foot, letting him feel the warmth; the foot relaxes and Douglas begins his ministrations again.

Douglas is unaware that he is now halfway under the table stroking Martin’s foot. In his mind, he is seeing a trim, pale otter floating on its back in a calm pool. Not the zoo, perhaps he is on a sight-seeing trip someplace. Yeah, that’s it! A sightseeing trip to the coast, just Martin and himself watching the animals; it will be time to leave soon so he stretches out in the sand and together they watch the marine animals play.

In the cockpit of GERTI, Douglas watches Martin’s exquisite hands as they fondle the yoke; suddenly jealous that they are not fondling any parts of the first officer. Relationships sometimes appear where they are least expected, without a doubt. Martin turns to him and smiles, a lovely sight, with the corners of his mouth turning up in quirky glee. Douglas gives it right back and suddenly the bright blue sky outside the windshield has gone sooty. Martin’s lips close in a tense, straight line that robs them of any color and his expression is one of undeniable horror. He quickly returns to his customary position as warning lights dot the control panel, the red lights painting translucent, bloody rivers of color against Martin’s pristine white uniform jacket and the back wall of the cockpit.

Douglas is frozen, he cannot move a muscle. He knows his mouth is open wide, yet there is no sound coming out. Martin is shouting, “I’ve got this. I have _control_. Douglas, _I_ have CONTROL!” The captain’s voice is harsh and seems to be torn from his throat on the rush of air that has the plane trembling beneath them. Whatever is _out there_ that hit them has slammed into them _hard_ and poor GERTI is failing fast.

Then Martin is just gone. A hole has been ripped in the thin metal of GERTI’s nose; air is rushing in and Douglas cannot breathe and he has just lost Martin because Martin was fucking protecting him and he cannot hold on anymore; it is a blessing when Douglas feels himself pulled from the now-smoking cockpit by the air as the plane tips southward; and then he is crying, tears streaming down his face. And it is not for him, no it is for what he has lost because _he_ could protect no one…no one…no one…the earth is coming up so quick and it is his last minutes of life and all he can see is the horrified expression on Martin’s face and all he can think is _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…_

“Douglas! Douglas!” Somewhere above him, a concerned voice is shouting. There is the feeling of being tugged out from under the table and Douglas opens his eyes to see Martin and John looking down at him. Martin’s brow is creased in worry and John is in full-out _doctor_ mode, dropping down to his knees beside Douglas and grabbing his wrist.

For a few seconds there is a weighted silence. John nods at Martin and stands, the two of them helping Douglas back to his seat.

“Douglas, I think you may have hit your head down there and had some sort of vasovegal reaction, maybe a tiny convulsion when you passed out.” John says as he scans Douglas’ eyes. He does not see anything that worries him, other than a slightly glassy look. “You haven’t…” John gestures towards the wine bottle.

“God, no. The only wine I’ve tasted in years has been off of Martin’s mouth.” He tilts his head in Martin’s direction and Martin does his best impression of a beet with an orange stem.

“Well, maybe your blood pressure just dropped or something.” John shrugs, masterfully hiding his own embarassment about his daydre-- fuck it, _fantasy_ about Martin. “Unfortunately, we’ll just have to go on instinct here because I have no way to check you out. How does your head feel?”

Douglas thinks about that for a few seconds. “Actually, I feel just fine. I apologize for scaring you.” He takes a deep gulp of his sparkling juice and reaches for Martin’s hand that is resting on the table, squeezing it lightly. Martin squeezes back.

John sits back down and gives a quizzical look to Sherlock who only woke up enough to sit up. His head rests on the back of the high-backed chair; he cracks his eyelids open enough to see where John is and slumps right back over. John chuckles warmly and pats his cheek. Everything is fine.

“Tell me more about that landing in Saint Petersburg.” John sips from his own glass and settles in for an interesting story.

Douglas crosses his forearms on the table and smiles, allowing the memory to surface. “Ah, John, I think Martin showed us _all_ that day. Of course, I don’t think the poor goose that went through the engine was impressed, but…”

*

Martin is having difficulty concentrating on anything except the now-absent feeling of Douglas’ hand on his foot. Until he and the first officer became intimate, he had no idea it would cause him to melt into a puddle of goo. He rubs the bottom of his foot on the smooth, polished wood of the table leg and tries hard to focus on the wonderful words spilling in rainbow form from Douglas’ golden lips. He will never forget Saint Pete and that horribly landing and finally, finally feeling like a _Captain_ : cool under pressure. It was an amazing thing for himself and listening to Douglas tell the story brings it all back: the intense adrenalin rush and the fear of imminent death.

Of course, when it was all said and done, Martin has to admit that death was the furthest thing from his mind. What he was really thinking about was _how_ to get GERTI back to earth safely by using…God, what was it? Why is the room spinning?

Martin pushes his empty plate away from himself and ever so softly rests his forehead against the cool, whispering tablecloth. It reminds of silky, satiny royal purple sheets. And sex. Yes, sex is like flying except you can really lose your mind in it…with flying you have to always _keep calm and stay alert_ and there is always a focus on the machine wrapped around you like a cocoon. Not only yourself, though, you are responsible for every living thing aboard that vessel, and many times the non-living as well.

Carolyn and Arthur smile at him—really smile. Carolyn adopted me a long time ago, I think…Arthur is like a little brother to me. Wonder what Sherlock would think of him? I don’t know. There is still so much I don’t know. His rational mind knows full well that he and Sherlock were pulled apart, pried apart, taken apart…what if GERTI falls apart? Martin has held the thinnest strands of his own life together for so long to find that they all trace back in some way to Douglas. Douglas is strong and level-headed. Even helping Martin before Martin was aware. He holds out his arms, palms up and the world goes grey and hazy and shimmery like the scales of a rainbow trout…

Right there in his hands, he is holding an icy cold rivet that is dripping blood. Why is it cold? It should be hot. Fire is hot. The blood is falling in a steady stream from the dark metal to his shiny black boot. Even amidst the chaos of battle he can feel the itchy uniform, the wool scratchy against his skin. How does he do this every day? It was a sneak attack. The words echo through his brain. _Sneak attack_.

Where am I? Is this real?

In slow motion he looks up to the fuselage of the Hurricane and it is crying massive icy tears. There is the sound of gunfire all around and the plane….the plane…disintegrates. Douglas is there, right at his shoulder, a rank above him as it should be and he is whispering rapidly into Martin’s ear, the sound louder than the gunfire and the shouts of the injured and the dying; oh God, the aeroplanes are dying there’s no one to save them… _Per ardua ad astra… Per ardua ad astra… Per ardua ad astra…_ Martin, I’m here, I’m here, Martin wake up, please wake up…

*

“Martin, where is John?” Sherlock asks the translucent specter of his baby brother.

“Sherlock, I…I have to tell you something. He’s here. He’s right here.” Phantom-Martin steps forward and gestures towards a box: a roughly hewn pine box.

No. It can’t be. The only light in the world shines down on that box.

Then Sherlock is standing on the box, an ancient sword in his hands. He can feel the curved handle cutting into his hand and there is blood, but where is the point? He gazes down, calmly, too calm, to see that the point is buried in John’s chest right where he lays against the black satin pillows of his… “NO!” Sherlock shouts.

“Why, Sherlock? Why did you do it?” Mycroft and Martin ask in unison. Mycroft holding his brolly high above Martin’s head, protecting him from the pelting sleet. The only light is on them and John. John is gone. Now there is only pain.

“I…” Sherlock’s mouth refuses to form words. His face is cold and wet. Whether it is tears or sleet or rain or blood…it no longer matters. He stares down at John’s serene face, frozen forever _en rictus_ … _rigor…rigor mortis…_ Sherlock screams. “But I _loved_ him. I loved him…” and falls to his knees right there in the middle of it all and there is no one, no one to help him to his feet.

The scene changes. Sherlock’s chest is empty as he walks alone among the people of the streets. They ask no questions, tell no lies. Darkness is for the heartless and the cowardly; it is a comfort, a shroud. Sherlock listens to the empty echoes of his footsteps on cobblestone and he thinks _Where am I_? He comes out at a corner between two stone buildings and there is a wharf. He can barely make out the destroyed hull of a ship crashed against one of the docks. The night and the water are silent; nothing stirs. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air. Everything else fades away.

A scream rents the silence, piercing it with the power of a bullet through bone. Sherlock stops and waits. Part of him knows what is coming…but the _joy_ upon seeing that beloved face one more time... “John!” He shouts and he runs, ignoring the strange clothing and gold watch bouncing against his hip when it falls from the pocket of his satin waistcoat. “John, I am here!” The watch chain whispers against his trousers in warning and he ignores it.

The figure standing in the deeper shadows raises its head and turns slowly as Sherlock gains on it. Sherlock opens his arms wide, like falling, it is like falling, all over again but John _will_ be there to catch me. Catch me. John’s eyes are glowing aquamarine, lightened by the moon, burning with…no. It cannot be. That is not insanity I see…no. I refuse to acknowledge it. John!

Sherlock makes to wrap the shorter man in his arms, hold him against his chest…replace the heart he has forgotten and for a minute everything is _right_. Familiar warmth begins at the base of his spine and Sherlock remembers _love_. Then John is pulling back from him and his lips curl back until Sherlock is staring into the face of a _wolf_ and John is latching onto his throat but Sherlock can still hear him saying, _You killed me, Sherlock. You tore me apart. You tear everything apart…you should have let me be! You killed me and rebuilt me into_ THIS!

Sherlock wakes himself with his screams. His entire body is trembling, threatening to shake him apart at the molecular level. John is there, of course he is there, where else would he be?

“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounds as shaky as Sherlock feels.

“John?” He mutters, shaking his head. There is a heavy feeling on his shoulders as John hauls him up from the table and against his chest.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to fight it.” Sherlock nods into John’s shoulder, doing his best to slow his breathing. This is a familiar feeling, but why here?

“John?” He mumbles without moving.

“Yes?” John’s arms tighten around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“’m sorry.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think this is your fault..” John begins.

“No, John.” Sherlock sits up to face his partner, fighting the last dregs of whatever has been slipped into their food and drink. He shakes his head and grips John’s shoulders. “No, John. I am sorry for what I did. For leaving you...for leaving again and again and again, and I…” He stops, taking another heaving breath. “It is wrong for me to do that to you.”

“Sherlock, it’s fine, not now.” John makes to embrace him again. Sherlock stops him by spreading his hands over John’s chest. An image of a metal breastplate floats through his thoughts as the last remaining vestiges of the drug begin to fade. 

“No. No it isn’t. It isn’t fine. It may never be fine. However,” he takes another fortifying breath. “I can be _better_.” He leans in and captures John’s mouth, one hand grasping the curve of John’s skull and hauling him in.

John knows he has never been kissed so _sincerely_ in his entire life. All he can do is hang on for the ride and follow Sherlock’s lead. When they come up for air, Sherlock taps their foreheads together and stands up.

Martin is sitting sideways in his chair so that his back is against Douglas’ chest; the first officer has his arms wrapped tightly around Martin’s torso. They both eye Sherlock suspiciously, Martin is positively quaking in the aftermath of his own ordeal.

Sherlock stops in front of his brother and studies the drying tears on his face, his red-rimmed eyes and knows deep within himself that at least part of those tears were put there by him. It is time to pay the piper. “Martin,” he rumbles, his deep voice gone impossibly ragged as he drops to his knees. “I have wronged you, as well. I will not ask you to forgive me. I will ask only if we can move forward.”

Like a knight in supplication, Sherlock bows his head. Martin, still recovering from his own hallucinogenic episode stares out at him beneath rebellious chestnut curls as if trying to decide if he is still under the influence of whatever the hell it was that they have been slipped. “Sherlock, get up, you idiot.” Martin says when his lips will finally do as they are told.

Sherlock shakes his head. John can see the tension in his body. He does not understand why Sherlock feels the need to do this, but at the same time, it makes complete sense. He is proud to see that Sherlock is finally understanding that some people really are _better_ in the company of others, their skills honed and sharpened like white light through a prism: more beautiful when magnified.

Martin pushes himself out of Douglas’ embrace. He stands in front of his brother, taps his shoulder and reaches out. Sherlock finally gets off the floor and returns Martin’s hug. This time it is not awkward for John and Douglas, instead they can share in the happiness.

With a sniff from Martin, the siblings break apart. Sherlock turns his face away from them but John spots it clearly when he raises his hand to wipe at his own tears. A large part of John just wants to hold him. And then shoot everyone who ever made him feel like he wasn’t good enough; wasn’t _real_ enough for them, because, for John, he is perfect the way he is. Martin and Sherlock share a laugh and then Sherlock is back to pacing the room like a caged cheetah, a storm in his own normality.

As the three men at the table relax again, the wait staff from earlier reappears and cleans up, leaving again as quickly as they come. Sherlock stops by the door, one arm across his chest, the other resting on it so that his index finger sits against his bottom lip. Sherlock's shoulders are hunched, giving him a walled-off look. His brow furrows when the staff enter the room and he watches them like a hawk as they leave. When the four of them are alone again, Martin breaks the silence with the question that has been burning in his brain since he snapped out of the drug-induced stupor.

“Sherlock, that woman from earlier, who is that?” He asks. Beside him and across from him, Douglas and John look up expectantly at the detective.

“As of yet I do not know her name. I have a realtively reasonable theory that she may be one of our aunts, Martin.” Sherlock offers.

“You thought…” Martin starts.

Sherlock cuts him off with a head nod. “I will admit to believing she was mine and Mycroft’s mother, Rose.”

A light bulb goes off in John’s head. “Oh.” He says, imitating Sherlock.

“Did she attempt to poison us?” Douglas asks, seeing that the floor is open for questioning.

“I am reasonably certain she did not attempt to _poison_ us. However, I do believe she meant to _drug_ us. Which means she will be back to check her handiwork.” Sherlock says and moves slightly closer to the door. “I am sure we will have disappointed her when she arrives.”

“When?” John queries. The two of them have spent entirely too much time in nasty predicaments for John to feel the need to ask questions in complete sentences.

“Right about…” Sherlock holds up a hand, cocking his head to the side. His eyes close and then he says, “Now.”

The door bangs open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, usually I like to make you look up stuff that I add into my pieces, but I love this too much to let it go. I'm sure some of you know what it means, though, for those of you who do not *Per ardua ad astra* is Latin for "Through Adversity to the Stars," the motto of the RAF. Just too perfect to not include it here because I think if Martin had been born in a different time he would have taken it to heart. Another translation is "Through Struggle to the Stars," which is just as appropriate. As always, extra kudos to anyone who sees *all* of the little crumbs and nods to, well, *everything!*
> 
> Now back to your regularly scheduled fanfic-ing! Thank you all for still being here, this thing has taken hold of me and has not yet let go!


	16. Plan A

The tall, elegant woman from earlier in the evening steps through the door with a serious expression on her face that makes it clear she could rule the world if she deemed it worth her time. John is forcefully reminded of Sherlock in those times when the mood strikes him and the detective suggests loudly to anyone within earshot that every other human being on the planet is an _idiot_.

She takes in the entire room and turns towards Sherlock, who has not moved from his prior position. She manages to both look directly at him and down her nose simultaneously.

Martin moans softly as he cradles his head in his hands. Douglas pats his back gently.

“So. Sherlock. Who am I?” The woman asks. She does not look at the detective, but at her fingernails as if contemplating a new manicure. She has changed her clothes and is now wearing a dark blouse, well-fitting tight-legged jeans and black peep-toe heels.

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest as he flicks his eyes from their hostess’s toes to the top of her head. John can see the very second when all the puzzle pieces fall together in his partner’s mind. “Aunt Renee.” Sherlock offers confidently, precisely pronouncing the name.

“Ah! I am so heartened that you figured it out! Maybe you are as good as you make yourself out to be!” Renee spins on her heel and perches on the end of the table. “So tell me more.” She looks down at the fine gold watch on her wrist. “Make it quick, though, the second round is due to begin any minute.”

Sherlock frowns at her, his mind still slow from the drug. “What did you give us?”

Renee laughs. “Really? You think I’m just going to tell you?” She sneers.

“You, the _Great Detective_? Oh no, stupid boy, I am going to make you work for it.” Renee gracefully removes herself from the table, patting the table cloth smooth again behind her. She knocks twice on the heavy doors. Four very-large men appear and stand waiting for her instructions.

Martin recognizes the man who picked up Douglas and himself at the hospital. Next to the other three of Renee’s toadies, however, he actually looks kind of _small_. Martin gives Douglas a pained look and starts to open his mouth. Instead of speaking, however, he bends down and groans. The stomach cramps are excruciating. Douglas turns to John with a pained look; the first officer is uncharacteristically unsure what to do.

“Good. You two,” Renee points at two of the bodyguards with her fingers and then towards John and Martin. “Take them first. We will put the little ones together and see what they can do. Besides, ginger cutie pie here looks like he may need some medical attention.”

John seriously considers fighting his way out when the huge man in the crisp blue suit grabs his arms, except that Martin is now flushed red and sweating profusely. At least wherever they are being taken, he can make sure Martin gets through it okay. A growl sounds deep in the back of his throat, the bodyguard drops John’s arm and John gives him a curt nod that says he will cooperate, but he will not be forced. The man meets him in the middle and simply gestures towards the exit.

Sherlock makes a move as if to follow them but the other two tough guys are quick enough to grab him by the arms and hold him. Sherlock wisely backs down from the fight, not knowing whether his lover or his brother will be safe unless he does. Renee gives him a very wide and very false smile. Her eyes are glittering ice chips. She points at the remaining two guards, then at Douglas.

“Leave him. Take _this_ one down to the chamber. Let’s see how he reacts, because, I am thinking, with his prior _history_ that there may be some issues.”

Both of the large men grab Sherlock’s arms and propel him towards the exit. For a second, he considers dragging his heels and then realizes that what he can feel digging into his side is an awfully large firearm. Well, then. He picks up his feet and allows them to lead him to another door, this one set back in a recess at the end of a long corridor.

The inside of this house certainly does not match the outside of it, by any stretch of the imagination, Sherlock thinks as he is shoved through the door. It closes behind him with a thud. He turns in a small circle to find himself looking down a narrow staircase that obviously ends in a basement. Just for posterity, he tries the door once and finds it locked, undoubtedly bolted from the outside. He snorts to himself with irritation. They took his lock picking set when they took his clothes. There is nothing for it, then, he has to go down the steps.

Which he does, carefully, listening to the old wood creak and groan under his feet. These shoes are thicker soled than his normal ones; without that extra bit of tactile information, he is more cautious than normal. Falling down a flight of stairs and getting seriously injured would probably be worse than fighting through whatever his deranged aunt has in mind for him. Scratch that: whatever she has in mind for _them_. Sherlock has to remember that he is not alone in the midst of all this insanity.  The step underneath his foot wobbles and there is tense moment where he fears it all may be lost anyhow. He steps down carefully to find that he is standing on a cool, firm surface of the basement floor.

There is very little light down here: only that from a single bare light bulb hanging from a nail on one of the wooden floor joists. Sherlock steps into the thin circle of light and casts his gaze around the room. It appears that he is being watched at on all sides by eyes identical to his own. He walks forward, extending one hand until it bumps against cool glass: a mirror. Actually, several mirrors: the floor to ceiling type all set next to each other so that the rough-hewn rock wall is entirely covered by his reflection staring back at him. Sherlock frowns at the unfamiliar clothing, still trying to guess what the clothing has to do with any part of this. Why would Renee want any contact with him at all after all these years? And what in the world would Martin have to do with it? There is no why that this all _begins_ with Martin, since the two of them have just recently come back into contact with one another. Douglas perhaps? No, that would be idiotic. The man seems like a decent enough person; perhaps doing a bit of small-time smuggling on the side, Sherlock does not think that the first officer has even dealt with smuggling anything more illicit than orchids or fish cakes.

So, no, neither Douglas nor Martin are the connection. John, then? Sherlock considers that from every angle. No. Sherlock has always been a bit private about his family, even after he and John stepped into the more physical side of their relationship. Sherlock places his palm against the side of the center mirror and pushes. The mirror and the rock behind it give a little.

What is this? Sherlock is concentrating on the mirrors so astutely that the tiny hiss from the ceiling barely makes a dent into his thoughts. He runs his fingers over the seams between where the mirrors connect; searching for any clue that will lead him out of here. When he begins to get light-headed, he ignores that as well. When he is unable to remain on his feet any longer, he fights the feeling enough that when he does hit the floor he is exhausted and his mind is wide open to suggestion.

*

Mycroft stands outside what he feels is a most ridiculous house, leaning on his umbrella and trying to blithely ignore the cloying scent of the flowers that are scattered about the place. The sun is going down, casting the entire scene with threatening shadows. He looks, if no one eyes him too closely, like a man waiting on a train, and a rather boring train at that. Mycroft does not fidget or move about much, he merely cocks his head to the one side every so often to either gaze at the domestic flora or to the listen to his team via the tiny, virtually invisible ear piece that he is wearing.

Plans are knitting together neatly. Mycroft focuses on the front door as Anthea begins reciting a line of code into his ear. Anyone passing by would only see a man wearing a brown trench coat of soft leather over his suit and leaning slightly on a very large, old-fashioned brolly watching the front door of a huge house. That is exactly what they are supposed to think; strangely, he knows that the majority of people viewing this scene would not even consider that upon closer inspection he really looks quite out of place in this particular neighborhood.

Anthea’s voice is crystal clear. “Seventeen-ay. Thirty-seven-see, forty-six-eye.” There is silence for a beat of ten as they listen for the call-backs from the remainder of the team; then she starts on the last line of pre-agreed upon code. “Twenty-two-ell, fifty-three-jay and seventy-four-zee.” She takes a breath, giving him the time to memorize it all. “Sir, everyone is online now. _Vaya con dios_.” She speaks assuredly. Mycroft does not reply, does not break character, will not change a thing about this entire operation. He is too good at this, too good at negotiating and entirely too good extractions to change anything this late in the game. Anthea, and Marie are as highly aware of his skills and the whole team backs them.

Finally, Marie tones in and says, “Good luck, sir. We are here if you need us.” All the coms now go to stealth mode and Mycroft is left virtually alone to mull over his next move. Does he go through and stick with the plan, or break down the door, grab the hostages and blow the place to hell?

While thinking over his options, another part of his mind is quite frankly amazed that his assistant broke down and called him ‘sir.’ There must be something about the current situation that is worrying her a bit. He boxes the thought away, squares his shoulders and strides purposely to the front door. His brothers and their partners disappeared through here several hours ago and he will dog their footsteps until they are found, dead or alive. Either way, he _will_ get answers for the unjustified kidnapping of four grown men; God have mercy on the soul of anyone who dares hurt a single hair on the head of any of them. 

 Mycroft has no doubt that he will get them out; what has happened to them in the meantime is an avenue best left unexplored until everyone is safe if he is still concentrate on the next few parts of their precisely laid-out plan. 

For all of Mycroft’s personal failures, he is as tenacious as an angry bulldog when his teeth is sunk into something serious; it’s really too bad that this time this is no run-of-the-mill villain and that he is going to have to go head-to-head with no less than someone of his own bloodline.


	17. Tension

 “Martin? Martin, can you hear me?” John asks in a voice that is clear and in control. Only Sherlock would be able to hear the slight tone of panic underneath. He catches Martin as the younger man’s knees buckle just as they are pushed in through the door of a smaller, yet no less well appointed room. John hauls Martin up by his thin shoulders and drags him to an overstuffed sofa. Barely an inch separates them in height but Martin’s slighter build makes him easy for John to maneuver.

Martin’s eyes close and he seems to fall into a deep sleep, but his shallow, erratic respirations tell the tale of drugged unconsciousness. John takes his pulse, somewhat concerned about the faint fluttering beneath his fingers; Martin’s wrist is so unlike his brother’s, thin and bony, though their fingers are very much the same. As John counts heartbeats, he idly wonders if the two of them inherited the fine bones in their hands from their father. As interested as John would be in meeting the man, he does not think he could keep from punching him, as disrespectful as that may be; if he still lives, that is.

“Martin, it’s going to be okay.” John hopes his words are getting through whatever is happening inside Martin’s mind. He gently brushes back Martin’s fringe and unbuttons the collar of his shirt so that when the captain does come to, he will not feel as if he is being strangled.

Martin groans and shifts his body away from John’s simple touch but John is stronger and holds his arm tightly. Sweat is pouring from his forehead now, dampening his red hair and changing the color from light orange to drying blood. Sweating is good, though, and John hopes it is Martin’s body’s way of metabolizing whatever they had been given. He could not have possibly ingested that much; however, there is absolutely no way for John to know. Nothing vital to Martin’s continuing existence seems to be shutting down so John sits on the floor next to the sofa to wait it out; at the very least he can be right there to give Martin whatever help he is able.

For the first time, John takes a good look around the room. The only light comes from a couple of tall lamps in either corner. Everything in this room is done in the same colors as the dining room, even down to the paintings of roses on the walls. At first that was interesting, but not it is becoming quite a bore.

John shimmies out of his jacket and tosses it into the seat of an armchair across the floor from the sofa. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls those up, too, glad that it is warm in here at least. He pulls his legs up and crosses his arms over his knees, resting his chin on his hands; John’s back is against the sofa. Behind him, Martin tosses and turns and sometimes mumbles a bit. John hopes that he comes out of the fog quickly. If Martin can answer some simple questions, John may be able, by process of elimination, to figure out just what it is they have all been given. As he slips into a restless sleep of his own, his mind supplies unhelpful images of people strung out on all kinds of things and every one of them has Martin’s or Sherlock’s face.

*

 The only thing Martin can see is blackness. All he can feel is a weight crushing him, pinning him to the ground. He cannot breathe. This has to be it, he thinks. GERTI has crash landed and he is dead. This: this is all there is. There are no half-naked babies with wings playing golden instruments, no long-dead relatives to hold him in their open arms, not even the lined and weathered face of his father to give him a smile and welcome him to the hereafter. He is unsure whether to be disappointed or elated; he really feels nothing at all.

There is nothing.

There is no pain. No hunger, no heat or cold.

Just the heavy blackness. Forever.

Martin tries hard to make the blackness part and show him at least the crash. He can only hope that Douglas made it out alive. Surely something as mundane as the crash of an old jet wouldn’t kill a ruthless old Sky God? Right? Martin knows he is crying, weeping really, because he can feel the water on his face, but he cannot feel whether it is hot or cold, nor can he tell whether it is thin saline like tears or thick drips of oxygenated blood.

Martin begins to scream against the hopelessness of it all. He has fought so long and so hard that he just doesn’t have it in him anymore. This is all he has left.

*

Douglas’ mouth snaps shut on the words he was about to say as Martin and John are dragged from the dining room. The air between Renee and himself seems to sizzle—and not in a good way. He casts his eyes about the area and notes with satisfaction that King Kong has disappeared from sight. He takes a deep breath in order to force his worry about Martin to the back of his mind. The first officer knows now that they have been drugged, which only adds to his worries; Martin is notoriously low tolerance when it comes to alcohol, so there’s no way his drug tolerance is much better. Douglas remembers the time Martin sprained his ankle; all he took were a couple of aspirin when the pain got too intense.

Douglas is pulled from his musings as Renee steps up on the dais and pulls out the chair across the table from him. She situates herself then offers Douglas a smile that could be sweet, except that her eyes are as hard and cold as an arctic ice cap.

“So, Douglas Richardson. First Officer of MJN Air and lover of one Martin Holmes.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Oh excuse me, his mother changed his last name, no? Martin Crieff.” Renee taps her long, French-manicured fingernails against the tablecloth. She seems to be waiting on a reaction from Douglas. “Bet you didn’t realize just _how much_ trouble these Holmes boys can be, did you?”

Douglas thinks that he is not going to give her the satisfaction of reacting. Besides, Martin’s relatives matter little to Douglas in the face of how he has grown to feel for the captain. He knows all too well the cliché that you don’t get to choose your relatives. Besides, once you get to know him a bit, Sherlock really is not _that_ bad. There is no doubt that the middle Holmes is a bit coarse around the edges, sure, but just as brilliant as Martin has proven time and time again that he can be. Martin’s brilliance just shows through in unique ways: pushing through his fear and landing an old aeroplane on a single engine, solving the myriad of problems in his personal life that always seem to be thrown at the captain from all sides, and most of all, drawing the strings that hold Douglas’ heart closer to himself in a way that Douglas did not even realize was happening until the day he thought _I am in love_.

“What game are you playing, woman?” Douglas growls as Renee reaches out for his hand. He pulls it back like he has laid it on an open flame.

Renee laughs, a shrill, heartless sound. “Aw, Douglas, I thought you and I could _play_. Besides the good Doctor Watson, you are the only other man about this place who knows anything about pleasing women. Am I correct?” She leans forward and actually bats her eyelashes at him.

Douglas laughs because she’s got to have at least fifteen years on him, probably more. Granted, in the past, that was usually not a problem, but now his loyalty lies elsewhere. His laughter rumbles up through his chest and brings tears to his eyes. He reaches up to wipe them off his face and says simply, “No.”

Renee shoves her chair back so hard that it falls down the single step with a thud that resounds through the room like the echo of gunfire. She is practically snarling. “Antonio!” She screeches out.

One of the massive body guards strides through the door. Renee says nothing else to him but points at Douglas, who holds his hands up in surrender. There is no doubt in his mind that the colossus could mess him badly if he struggles. The man grabs him roughly by the shoulders and shoves him in the direction of the door.

At this point, Douglas has nothing to lose. He childishly sticks his tongue out at Renee as he is pushed past her and gives a little wave. Renee stalks over to him and lands a sharp blow across his face with the flat of her hand. The bodyguard stops, pinning Douglas to the spot by his shoulders. Douglas does not take the time to reflect that the man’s hands are uncomfortably close to his neck.

“Renee, you are one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. I wouldn’t touch you for all the tea in China.” He sniffs in disdain.

There is the sound of another snarling scream, a burning fire as she rakes her claws down his face. Douglas instinctively recoils from the pain but the bodyguard is faster, giving him a nice uppercut to the jaw. Douglas falls hard to the floor. Renee spits at him and turns on her heels.

“Lock him up. Kill him if one of the others disobeys any order. We needed a bargaining chip and I believe he just signed on for the task.” Renee’s face is red with fury as she strides down the corridor into the depths of the house beyond.

*

John’s head jerks up from his hands when Martin begins to scream. His arms flail about and one hand just misses John’s face when the doctor grabs Martin’s wrists and holds them against his chest.

“Martin.” John says, reaching deep into the depths of himself and trying hard for _calm;_ he works hard not to be overwhelmed by the entire situation.

For a few more seconds Martin continues to fight him until his green eyes open as if by accident and he instantly stills, staring at John’s face. “It…It…” he gulps air like a dying carp. He wants to tell John about the crash, to say _it is all my fault_ but the words refuse to come.

“Martin, it’s alright. I am here. We were drugged.” John pushes the captain’s hands closer to his chest and holds them there, letting Martin feel the rhythm of his own heartbeat. The action does the trick and Martin quiets, still staring at John as if he cannot believe the other man is real. “Martin, please. Breathe easy.”

Martin takes a deep, cleansing breath. “There, that’s it. You are going to be fine.” John tells him, still holding both of Martin’s hands. “I’m going to let go now, don’t sit up until you are ready.”

Martin nods in understanding. When John releases his hands, he runs his fingers through his hair. John recognizes the self-comforting motion and a cold pang of sadness clutches at his heart.

After a few minutes of silence, Martin carefully pulls himself up on the sofa. John watches him, determines he will not faint or vomit and drags the armchair in front of him, leaving just enough room for their legs. John is unsure yet exactly what Martin needs, so he leaves room for the younger man to move if necessary, however, he wants to assure the captain that he will be there if needed.


	18. Control

“Sir, the situation outside the perimeter has disintegrated.” Mycroft picks up on the hesitation in Marie’s voice. Anthea chimes in directly after, “Sir, you need to vacate the premises.” Several other voices, male and female, call instructions to one another. Mycroft sets his umbrella against the wall with the point down as he ignores them all as mere white noise, instead devoting all of his not inconsiderable attention on the pair of wooden doors standing directly in front of him.

He is guessing that this is some sort of meeting room, though the last vestiges of the scent of a very large meal still remain to tell him it is a formal dining hall. Shifting his balance on his leather wingtips, he puts his back to the door and lets his eyes scan the corridors that run to the left and the right. Marie tries again to get her boss to answer and once again Mycroft blocks it, paying more attention to his immediate surroundings. After all, it is for these kinds of issues that he keeps a team in the first place. Well, some people think of it as _keeping_ …he normally thinks of it as a group of people who are top in their fields who pass his rigorous initiation process to gain access to his inner circle.

In his ear is the sound of a very irritated female hissing and growling loudly. He knows the exact second Marie yanks off her headgear because it makes an annoying _da-dwong_ _tink tink tink thud_ sound as it bounces off whatever surface she flung it at in her haste. Mycroft hears her mutter very clearly, _Godammit! He’s gonna get himself killed,_ and so he smirks, running his hand down to the first knob. It turns in his hand but the door does not open when he pushes against it.

Of course, that’s his excuse for forgetting about Anthea.

Well, that was an incredibly obtuse thing to do. He fiddles with his gold cufflinks and waits for the penny to drop.

Anthea is now lighting up the wireless signal with several very well chosen adjectives for exactly _what_ Mycroft Holmes is. Oh! She adds several _colorful_ phrases about what he can _do_ with certain parts of his anatomy. Hmmm….is that even possible? He will have to talk to Gr…

Anthea’s shrill voice cuts through Mycroft’s forward-rushing brain like a hot chainsaw through an ice sculpture. “MYCROFT HOLMES! I know you can hear me. I said: DO YOU COPY?”

Mycroft waits for a beat of three seconds, allowing space for one of his closest confidants to have her little hissy fit.

“Do you copy, sir?” She asks, finally chastened for her outburst, though he has not uttered a single word.

Mycroft smiles in his severe know-it-all straight-lipped way and opens his mouth to answer her when his ear piece is torn out by a very large, very rough hand. There are two very big men on either side of him, pinning his arms against his sides and shoving him against the doors. The old wood groans under the onslaught and gives against his spine. His jacket and shirt are raked up, leaving his back almost bare; the skin burns where his braces cut into it from the force used to contain him.

Mycroft knows when to hold still so he wisely does not move and shuts his mouth. Renee appears from down the corridor, clapping her hands in a most dramatic fashion. “Ah, Nephew mine. Come to join the party?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow haughtily, he starts to speak then finds his mouth blocked by a wide palm. Right now, fifteen different escape scenarios flash through his mind, but none of them will help him rescue the others. He takes a chance and freezes, his eyes watching his aunt pace in front of him with a smile as charming as an angry wasp painted across her fine features.

Somehow the woman manages to take him back in time with the tilt of her head and the gleam in her bottle green irises. Mycroft feels the sting of the needle as it pierces the skin of his neck then there is nothing but the memories.

Mycroft is ten years old. He is racing down the tree-lined, paved driveway, chasing the car holding his mother. Snow blankets either side, though enough has been cleared that he can run without worry of sliding in the slush.

Rose has turned in the seat so that she can wave at him. The image is as crystal clear as if it was happening right now. The dark and light grey striations in the soft fur collar framing her gentle face, the way her dark red hair is styled so neatly and the bright lipstick that shines against her well-made mouth as her lips move to form the words _I love you, son_.

Sudden clarity overwhelms every circuit of Mycroft’s being with the same effect as crashing into a brick wall from a motorcycle.

There were tears in her eyes! Mycroft’s mental picture freezes on that one second in time where his mother is saying _love_ and there are twin tears rolling down her cheeks; he mentally reaches out and zooms in, right through the back window of the car and those tears stand out in bas relief as twin prisms through which all of the light in his entire life bends into three colors: red, black, and orange and then the car is slipping away and Mycroft’s small hand is reaching out towards his mother and he wants to cry out “Stop!” but she’s only going to visit…to visit…someone…

Where is she going?

Mycroft, only partially conscious, waves a hand through the air as if wiping a slate clean, a move eerily reminiscent of his middle sibling when Sherlock is digging through the myriad of treasure troves in his mind, searching…always searching…

Mycroft hears himself tell Martin “ _Sieger did not kill Rose, it really was an accident”_ ….an accident…an accident…

Sieger _did not kill_ Rose…

How could he have been so stupid all this time? Mycroft fights against his human restraints, arching his back and trying for purchase against the floor to push upward. A conversation between Renee and her bodyguards swirls around him, though he is oblivious to it. He partially hears the words _too much_ and _maybe it is time_ and _final act_ before he is propelled back in time again to stare at the last car his mother ever rode in as it continues to pull away.

It is mocking him for everything that happened in his life after she was killed. The same car that took her away from him…no, from _them_ also took her life when it skidded off the side of the road and rolled over in a deep ditch filled with ice and snow. The tail lights are eyes narrowed in disappointment; the boot a snarl filled with blind rage. _You knew. All this time,_ you _knew. Yet you did nothing. You are a_ failure _, Mycroft Holmes. You failed to protect_ her _, you failed to protect your brothers. Look at them!_

Unbidden, photographs fly by: of Sherlock when he was a baby, then a toddler…on fast forward until he was an angry, lonely teenager then an angry, lonely young adult; finally the pictures begin to slow when he comes out of rehab, still angry, still lonely but finally with a _purpose_ thanks to a single individual who cared enough to give him puzzles to solve.

A still frame of a mental video of John Watson saying _I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business_ the first time Mycroft pulled him away from the streets of London to question him about his involvement with Sherlock. The steely blue gaze that met his own time after time and Mycroft remembers thinking that this was someone who would _stand up_ for his little brother in the multitude of ways he was _unable_ to do…why did Mycroft never take the opportunity to carefully watch over Martin?

Why?

The pictures begin to fly by, faster now. A smiling baby with a tuft of curly orange hair, even then his green eyes sparkling with _joie de vivre_. A ginger cupid and the two of them, Sherlock and Martin, so close so quickly, peas-in-a-pod…it was almost comical; more accurately it was cosmic. The sad day when Sherlock lost as much as Mycroft had ever gained…the happy-go-lucky woman who had become his mother, and his best-friend, his baby brother all because of a single mistake…Martin as he is now, proud in his worn but very clean uniform…underfed and still hurting inside because Mycroft was unable to do anything about the situation.

Mycroft knows Sherlock would never have intentionally hurt the boy. Never. _Just like I vowed to never run again, never chase_ anyone _I cared for…Sherlock vowed to never have another friend. Both of us never wanted to be hurt again…look at us now._

Mycroft is openly weeping, scalding tears rolling down his burning face where the dam of his emotions has literally burst into a million fragments. Vaguely he hears his aunt question the guards about dosage, but the words mean nothing.

_Look at us now...look at us now…_

Those four words begin to loop in Mycroft’s subconscious. Sherlock has John. Mycroft is not alone. Martin has Douglas. _Around and around the garden, like a teddy bear…teddy bear picnic…there will be tea and scones…now…look at us…here we are, you invited us to this party, Mycroft…but left us empty handed. Look at us…_

 _Look at_ us _NOW!_

He says it out loud, shouts it to the ceiling; his whirling mind comes to a complete standstill as he masters it and pushes through the chaos to be stronger on the other side.

Mycroft immediately stops struggling and drops like a stone to the floor, his back bowed and legs stretched out in front of him. The three bodyguards that had him pinned let go as if there is a chance the man in the suit will burn them. They stare at him, then at Renee as a scream pierces the silence around them.


	19. Warm Up

John studies Martin’s face as the younger man slowly regains his senses. At the exact moment Martin finally comes back to himself, the door behind John creaks open slowly and one of the body guards steps into the room. He edges around John’s chair so that he is standing between them. Martin’s face goes rigid and he attempts to fold himself into a trembling ginger hedgehog. John stands, pushes the chair towards the wall and then steps in front of Martin, crossing his arms and spreading his feet. He has a bad feeling something nasty is about to take place.

It all happens very quickly: the bodyguard pulls a syringe out of his pocket and John makes to block him from getting to Martin because he can _see_ the intent in the larger man’s eyes. John raises one hand only to find himself on the wrong end of a nasty backhand so hard that his eyes water and his ears ring. As he lands on his rear end, John sees the bodyguard grab Martin’s slender wrist and twist his arm upward, effectively pinning him to the sofa.

Rage on the behalf of every person ever forced against their will floods John’s senses. He jumps to his feet and grabs the bodyguard around the waist. It is too late. The man rears backwards and John can clearly see the empty syringe. Martin is staring at him with wide eyes, clutching at the spot on his neck where the needle stuck him. As per his army days, John is entirely too familiar with the defeated look at the captain’s face; it only serves to intensify John’s anger. Without thinking, he pushes off the floor with his feet so that the bodyguard is unbalanced and they both tumble to the floor. The syringe hits the floor and rolls away from them; John is beyond hearing anything but his own stream of consciousness as his mind returns to a fight for life.  

The bodyguard fights back, even landing a couple of good blows across John’s face; but John Watson is in full battle mode now. His knees are balanced on the man’s chest and his fits are striking whatever living flesh they can reach. After he hears the first snap of bone, the doctor’s world only becomes about stopping the threat. Eventually the man’s blows weaken and he stops struggling. By the time John is pulled into awareness by an ear-splitting primal scream from Martin, the right side of the bodyguard’s face resembles raw ground beef. John pulls away from him, ignoring his bloody, swollen hands and the pain behind his eyes. He turns towards Martin who is crouching in the floor against the wall next to the door.

“Martin, it’s me John.” _What has this goddamn drug done to him?_ John moves towards him slowly, his bloodied hands held out in front of him. Martin screams again and launches himself in John’s direction, a sheer look of hatred masking his normal features. John steps backwards in preparation for Martin to slam into him, but it never happens. The other three guards have kicked in the door and two of them are holding a struggling, screaming Martin. Martin’s green irises have gone black and the sounds coming out of his mouth no longer resemble anything human.

The third bodyguard grabs John’s arms and pulls them to his back where he can grip his wrists; it is too late now. All the fight has left the weary soldier and he stands dumbly as they drag Martin back down the corridor, the thin man uselessly kicking and fighting them the entire way.

“Did you see that, Doctor Watson?” Renee slides through the ruined doorway to stop in front of John. “My chemistry is flawless. From gentle bumbling idiot to bloodthirsty in thirty seconds.”

“What have you done?” John growls.

“Ultimately, I’ve made him more interesting.” Renee states.

“Bitch.” The bodyguard’s hands tighten on John’s arms.

“I don’t think so.” Renee slaps John across the face. He pulls his head back and glares at her. “Oh ho ho! Aren’t you just a delightful poppet when you are angry?” She pats his cheek.

“Don’t touch me.” John thinks he might be able to get away, though not without at least one dislocated shoulder. Besides, if he loses his cool now he may never find out where they have taken Martin or Sherlock or what they have done to Douglas. “What is your game?” He asks her, willing his voice into a more reasonable tone.

“Now _that_ is a secret.” Renee offers, reminding John of another insane criminal he knew once. She looks at the watch on her wrist before eyeing him for a second then says to the bodyguard. “I think it’s time. Bring Doctor Watson here to the gallery.” With the toss of her head she slips back into the corridor. In no time at all, John finds himself being shove-marched in her footsteps deeper into the bowels of the house.

*

Sherlock balances nimbly on the balls of his bare feet, arms relaxed at his sides, staring intently into the mirror that faces him, waiting the way a cat waits for a mouse to run by. All that time and kinetic energy saved for one single burst of speed that may or may not bring down the prey. His mental focus is only minimally on the four other reflections of his own face that surround him. Staring into his own eyes has never been as disconcerting for him as for other people. He knows full well _what_ and _who_ he is; Renee’s plan to force him to face, well, himself, is a foolish move on her part. He concentrates on all of the non-sounds around him as he pulls the red button-down shirt from his black trousers. The shoes and jacket lie in a heap behind him, out of the way; anything that would impede his movement is unnecessary.

Discovering the hidden door is practically child’s play for the sleuth, though he does not believe they know yet that he has discerned its whereabouts amongst the glass and steel decorating the walls. Muscles tense across his shoulders as he rolls them, keeping himself warmed up and ready.

When something finally happens, it is anticlimactic enough that it surprises even the great detective.

Sherlock takes two steps backwards as the grinding of invisible machinery whirrs and grumbles to a start. A system of pulleys and ropes behind the mirror causes it to vibrate slightly in its steel frame. The mirror rises slowly in place then swings towards him, aided by slim chains from the ceiling. He drops to his knees, narrowly avoiding a nasty hit from the heavy object. With the mirror slotted into place, Sherlock finds himself facing a dark, narrow tunnel; he never looks back but steps right through the hole in the wall to follow it wherever it will lead. He has wasted entirely too much time on this enigma already.

Sherlock stretches out his arms and runs the pads of his fingers across the rough stone walls in order to glean as much data about his surroundings as he is able. He has the impression that he is moving steadily downward. The further he goes the more dampness is apparent on the walls and the cooler the smooth stone path beneath his feet.

The coolness is helping Sherlock’s mind to clear, his sheer power of focus burning through what he can still positively identify as Renee’s drug running through his veins. He sees dark shapes in his peripheral vision and accepts that the concoction may still slow him down; he is in control enough of himself to face immediate danger. Doing _nothing_ is far worse than stepping into a war zone alone. Naturally, things of this nature are always better with John at his side and he makes a promise to himself that as soon as he finds a way to get free he is going to find his partner; whoa to anyone who has dared injure a single hair on John’s head.

Those thoughts bring him round to his little brother and for an instant; Sherlock feels a terrible stab of guilt that makes him stop walking and hang his head. Martin should not be involved in any of this. It seems their mutual relative has gone swimming in the deep end of the crazy pool and forgotten where the shore is located. He sighs wearily and contemplates how unfair it is that the nut-jobs who get obsessed with Sherlock always seem to hurt those he cares about. 

*

Mycroft Holmes has quite literally not been knocked out in years. As a rule, he does not inhale nor ingest anything to excess; he most certainly does not _brawl_ because when he finds it necessary to stand his ground, either his own weapon or one belonging to a team member is more than efficient to get the job done. In total, he is always in control of himself. _Always_.

So when he finds himself awakening to the chaotic tempo of a headache throbbing behind his eyes, his first reaction is to slip back under until it goes away. Of course, coming to the realization that you are completely naked when before you are sure you were wearing the suit you picked from your wardrobe that morning is more disconcerting than any type of headache. Mycroft sits up in order to take stock of his surroundings. Apparently he has been moved to some type of holding cell: there are bars in front of him, something that could have passed as a bed during the Great War as well as a sink and a toilet. The cement floor beneath his nude bum is cold so he gets up and makes his way to the sink where he splashes water on his face. He uses the toilet, noting that it has recently been scrubbed clean. Mycroft turns towards the bed, thinking that maybe he will at least be able to cover up with a blanket when he sees a small pile of clothing in the center of it. He holds up the neatly folded garments and finds a charcoal-grey suit, a turquoise button down shirt, clean pants, black braces, but no shoes or socks. Anything is better than nothing, he thinks, slipping into the outfit.

As to be expected, every stitch of the clothing fits him like a glove. The suit jacket is decorated about the cuffs and lapels with tiny, blood-red, pearl-like knots of embroidery. When he is finally dressed, he takes a seat on the bed, deciding that waiting is his only option as he works on why in the world someone would want to dress him in a suit embellished with miniature roses.

*

The narrow path is not straight but meanders a little to the right and then to the left as if it has been built around something larger. It finally ends at another door. Sherlock sighs, irritated that he has come so far to find nothing useful. He paces for a short time then attempts to head back in the direction that he came from when he is stopped bodily by one of his aunt’s huge lackeys. At this point there is a whole lot of pent up energy and adrenalin burning through his veins, so he never even hesitates before launching himself at the bigger man.

There is a grunt when Sherlock gets in a single punch to the guard’s diaphragm. The guard, however, is a solid mountain of muscle and gets both of his massive arms around Sherlock’s slender torso before the detective can haul back for a second hit; he squeezes hard enough that Sherlock is soon gasping for a breath.

“Now, little one, I’m going to let you down. You don’t run and I don’t squash you.”

Sherlock, winded, merely complies without saying anything.

“Good, Mistress Renee would be unhappy if I break one of her stars before the festivities of the night commence.” The big man loosens his hold enough that Sherlock slips towards the floor, and then he leans forward and pushes the detective down with both hands on his lean shoulders. “We have an agreement, then. You take this and I let you out these doors.” The bodyguard reaches into his jacket pocket and holds his palm out towards Sherlock’s face. Sitting innocently there is a tiny mint green pill. Sherlock eyes it warily, flicks his eyes up to the body guard and shakes his head again, this time to the negative.

“Well, then, you leave me no choice.” In less than a heartbeat, Sherlock’s neck is in the vice-like grip of the big man’s hand. In retaliation, Sherlock purses his lips together; he can actually feel the oxygen being blocked from his brain. It's no good, he can't lose the one thing that may keep him alive. 

“I can outwait you, little one.” The man smirks as he squeezes a little more. Sherlock finally has to gasp for air and the bodyguard slams the pill into Sherlock’s mouth, yanking his head upward and so forcing the detective to swallow the pill. He slams Sherlock against the wall for good measure, yanking his arms around behind his back. The detective grunts with the pain but otherwise ignores the power play.

The bodyguard pushes Sherlock along in front of him until he stops in front of another hidden door. He pushes an invisible button and the wall swings inward to admit them. Sherlock raises his head enough to cast his eyes around what looks very much to be a block of jail cells. It is no surprise when the bodyguard pushes him into one of them. Sherlock walks to the bed and sits on it, resting his head in his hands. He knows he could pick the lock on the cell door, but how would he get out of the cell block when there are no visible entrances or exits?


	20. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He let illicit chemicals take away his ability to chose his own actions before, and it is not going to happen again, especially now.

Martin Crieff, captain of the single old jet plane belonging to MJN Air, lover of Douglas Richardson, and brother to a pair of the most obnoxious siblings anyone could ever have feels like he is spinning out in space somewhere. Gravity no longer exists, up is sideways and down is backwards. Magnetic north has gone on holiday. For all he is aware, he is crouched down under some shrubbery in the rain in Spain, doing his best to hide; he has no idea what he is hiding from.

Everything falls gently to the plains.

Martin’s whole body is a study in pain.

From the top of his curly head to the bottoms of his littlest toes is a burning sensation threatening to pull his sanity under as it burns him to a crisp.

Just as it had in the dining hall, his out-of-control mind is exhuming long-buried memories and fertilizing the fears that spring from seeing them again, out of context—pushing him further and further away from the physical pain and into the psychic. Anger begins to creep in around the edges of the virtual photographs. It discolors even the fondest memories, causing the colors to fade to black. Sherlock allowed him to fall, again and again. Sherlock did not want to be with him; he laughed at him when Martin’s mom finally decided to split them up. Mycroft stood by and let it all happen. Let a child’s heart break, never to be put back together.

Martin screams and beats the concrete floor with his fists. Outside the partially-open door, Renee stands with her hand over her mouth to hide a crooked smile. She decides to let the younger man’s rage build up even more and gives herself a small pat on the back for the brilliant maneuver of including the youngest, and hardest to find, Holmes brother. If all goes well—and it _will_ —tonight will be _smashing_.  

*

John does not start out to fight against Renee’s muscle, instead choosing to go along in the event that he can figure out what is happening here. At least that was his plan, until the guard yanks a black sack out of his pocket and shoves it over John’s head.

John is unaware of the snarl that breaks past his lips as he fights the human wall like a wet cat. The bodyguard, frustrated with John’s reaction, finally grabs the smaller man’s face in his hands and bashes his skull into John’s forehead; John lands on the floor in a heap.

The bodyguard frowns down at John’s limp form for the irritation and _time wasting_. He bends down and throws the doctor over his shoulder like a stocky mannequin then proceeds on down the corridor towards a set of mahogany doors set with gold fixtures. He adjusts himself so that he can hold John’s legs with one hand then raises his fist to knock three times against the shiny wood.

The door swings open as if by magic; the guard now faces a sea of humanity sitting in wooden chairs at round tables placed at regular intervals about the cavernous room. On each table sits an unlit pillar candle in golden holders. Above them, the floor joists and rafters of the house are clearly visible, all of the wood polished and the metal parts clear of dust and grime. The atmosphere is that of a ritzy casino, if a bit more subdued; the stakes here are much higher.

Well-dressed men and women give the big man nods and polite smiles as he passes them with his burden. They all quickly return to their quiet conversations and card games, but keep a collective eye on the bodyguard as he tips a still-unconscious John into a seat at a large, rectangular table that is facing away from the others. John slumps against the backrest and the bodyguard lets his head fall forward so that the doctor ends up hunched over the table. He appears to be a man deep in his cups sleeping some of it off.

The bodyguard loosens the ties on the black hood over John’s head just as Douglas is heavily dropped into the other seat. The second body guard props him up in a similar fashion to John and unknots the ties on his hood. They double-check that their contributions to the night’s events are properly handled and give each other curt nods. Together, the two bodyguards move away from the table and silently melt into the shadows that line the walls.

*

“Marie?” There is a pause in Marie’s ear and then static as Anthea adjusts her own Bluetooth device.

“Roger.” Marie murmurs, hoping her voice is low enough not to carry from where she is kneeling on the ground beside a blacked-over basement window outside the house her boss disappeared into several hours ago. “I can see a way in.”

Anthea says nothing, her silence filling the air waves with the loudest _hell no_ Marie has ever not heard.

“Anthea, I know you hear me. Give me permission or I’m going in dark.” Marie fusses with the strap of her ankle holster. Damn these skinny jeans. She finally works the custom made firearm loose of its bindings and checks the chamber to see that the four rounds are still in place. She zips her knee-high boots back over the denim as Anthea sighs loudly.

“Marie, you know he will have my hide…” Anthea tries.

“Give it up. Let’s get him out so that he has the ability to chew you a new one.” Marie says in an irritated hiss.

“Good luck, girl, I’ve got Silver Fox and the rest of the Ice Man’s team on standby.” Anthea says in her most professional manner, keeping a slight emphasis on the code names.  

“Aye, team-leader.” Marie whispers as she stands and dusts her knees off and adjusting her purple silk blouse; happy that she got her way without too much argument. They are both well-aware of each others’ strengths and weaknesses. Marie is not stupid: this is hers.

She puts her back against the brick wall and takes in the slowly dying sun, debating on truly going in silent. The only benefit to the ear piece is that everything is constantly being recorded and sent to the home office via its strong signal. The only thing bad about _that_ is everything she does or says is being constantly recorded and sent to the home office. Marie’s seven years of experience in the field tells her that whatever is happening here probably will not go down by the book. Not in the least.

She snorts softly to herself before telling Anthea, “Sorry, hon, going in dark. Start the countdown.”

“Marie, no…” Anthea’s words are drowned out when Marie clicks off the clear plastic headset and removes it from her ear. She shoves it into her jeans pocket, flicks the safety off her gun and moves to rear entrance. Her plan is to blend in with the well-dressed people that have been moving through it in the time she has been casing the joint and maybe get a bead on what is happening down there. Marie trusts the feeling in her gut that Mycroft is in that basement and if she is lucky, he will know where the others have gone to, as well.

Marie does her best to look like she belongs there as she follows on the heels of a middle-aged man and woman who are so wrapped up in each other that they don’t see her. Small parts of their conversation float back to her as they all descend a shiny wooden staircase: they seem to be discussing some kind of tournament. Poker, perhaps? Of course, in the end, _what_  is happening does not change her objectives so she plays along as a man in an old-fashioned tuxedo opens a door for them and she steps into a cavernous room filled from stem to stern with tables and chairs.

She gazes around, attempting to get her bearings, until the doorman chivvies her to an empty seat where she nods her companions. She is dealt into a game of Five Card Stud and quickly sorts her cards. The game is difficult to concentrate on, however, because her eyes are constantly drawn to the two hooded figures that seem to be sleeping at a table in the front of the room. Something about them looks awfully familiar. Marie is wise enough to know anything she would do now would draw attention to her so she smiles and does her best to get into the game.

*

“NO!” Sherlock roars as he paces his cell. Every nerve, neuron and dendrite in his body is on fire. A normally well-ordered thought process has been completely broken down by a string of terrible images; each growing more horrible than the next as the drug is absorbed fully into his bloodstream.

Pictures of John dead or dying, dismembered, drained of blood...all Sherlock can do is keep moving. He paces from one end of the cramped cell to the other, running his fingers through his hair and tugging at his clothes. His scarlet shirt now hangs outside the trousers, only held closed by the two middle buttons—and only because his fidgeting fingers have not yet discovered the oversight. In his mind he is a firewalker stepping carefully over the stoked and raked hot coals: if he stands still in one place too long he will burn one of the softest parts of his body. He shakes his head back and forth like a dog just come in out of the rain and claws at his scalp. His eyes frantically open and close as he paces, setting a strange rhythm as he struggles along the teetering wall between reality and fantasy.

“Sherlock?” An all-too familiar abrupt and nasal accent calls out to the struggling detective.

When the disembodied voice finally cuts through his cyclonic thoughts, Sherlock stops. Everything about him becomes still: his hands freeze, his hair falls into his eyes, the tails of his shirt stop billowing, and even his bare toes end their ceaseless effort at extrapolating data from his surroundings.

“Mycroft?” He asks, sounding so much a prepubescent version of himself. He immediately hates it and tries not to say anything else. Colors whirl behind his eyelids; Sherlock’s brain registers the drug reactions as well as the reality of his situation. A lesser man would be driven insane with the overwhelming input.

“Sherlock, I am here. I am right next to you.” There is a shuffling sound as Mycroft moves from his bunk and leans against the iron bars. He forces a hand through them and moves it up and down. “I am here.”

Sherlock makes a whiny sound and steps towards the front of his own cell. He sees Mycroft’s hand moving between dark green tracers and it is the reality he needs to ground himself. Sherlock drops to the floor and folds up in order to rest his head on his knees. “I’ve been drugged.” He says flatly, detesting spewing the obvious even before the words leave his mouth.

“I know.” Mycroft’s voice carries over the entire cell block. Sherlock takes advantage of a clear moment and guesses there are six cells here.

“No.” Mycroft says. “There are eight. Six of them are empty.”

Sherlock pauses on that for a moment. _Oh! That’s_ what John feels like when Sherlock does that to him. Of course, on the caboose of that train of thought, the horrible images of his John bleeding out begin to resurface. Sherlock starts to rock, still mostly fighting the influence of the drug whilst also being unable to completely block its messages from his brain. John lies still, his normally tan skin as pale as the marble slab he is spread out on…but is isn’t true. It isn’t happening. This.is.not.real.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft calls more loudly this time.

Sherlock pulls himself away from the images and out of his head and grabs the bars with both hands. The cold metal brings him closer to his senses, though he is still reeling from the onslaught of data.

“The drug, Sherlock. You know the pictures aren’t real.” Mycroft speaks slowly as if to a terrified child… _the_ terrified child.

Sherlock does his best to hang on. “You?” He mutters, leaning his forehead against the bars and letting his chin rest against his hands. There is no sense in fighting his brother anymore, not now, it is simply too exhausting. Maybe if he rests here for a moment, a solution to the problem at hand will present itself. Perhaps this one time, sleep would be good.

Maybe. “Yes.” Mycroft answers. Sherlock nods his head against the thick iron bars, ignoring the way rusty, flaking pieces of metal pull at his curls.

“Fight it, Sherlock.”

For a few minutes, the brothers are silent. Sherlock takes the time to force himself into the lotus position, trying to relax his limbs. He closes his eyes, turns his face towards the ceiling and takes a deep, cleansing breath in an attempt to ground himself because he has no desire whatsoever to be taken down without at least being aware of the entire situation. He let illicit chemicals take away his ability to chose his own actions before, and it is not going to happen again, especially now. An almost unheard “Thank you” slips past his lips before he knows that he has chosen to speak.

In a mirror image of Sherlock, Mycroft rests the back of his head against the wall and wishes that if they cannot be together, at least the wall between them could be less significant.


	21. Hints and Illusions

Marie is doing her very best to feign interest in the rather relaxed game at hand. So far she has been lucky as the group at her table seems more intent on bullshitting each other than noticing where her eyes have wandered. Besides herself, there are three men and two women at the table and only one of the men has given her a second look at all; the others are too caught up in the cards. There are no beverages or snacks at hand, nothing to fiddle with. The strangers talk amongst themselves, not giving away much but enough that Marie can tell this gathering is a semi-regular deal. A slight shiver of excitement runs through the room.

Experience has taught her that she has an impeccable poker face, yet she is choosing to let the majority of the game slide by so she is losing by a landslide. At this point, most of her concentration is on the two hooded figures at what seems to be the front of the room. She is thankful for the dull roar of noise steadily growing louder because it keeps her from being able to talk much with her tablemates, other than what she needs to say to place a bet and keep the cards in play.

Marie discretely watches the head table as the man across from her grins lewdly as he rakes in a pile of poker chips; she fights the urge to slug him right in the nasty teeth. She hides her irritation behind a crooked, flirty smile and lets her eyes fall back to the four cards that are now lying face up in front of her; interestingly enough, she has all four Jacks. For a moment she allows the game to hold her interest and gives mister Nasty Teeth an even frostier smirk as she flips over the Ace of Spades; incidentally, it turns out to be the highest hand that round.

“Nice hand, miss?” Nasty Teeth asks.

Marie grins, completely ignoring that he is asking for her name and says, “Thanks.” No reason to be impolite, really.

When Marie finally gets a chance to look up from the game again, the larger of the hooded men is in the process of coming around and Marie fights herself to stay where she is. No one else in the room seems to notice what is happening; if she is being truthful with herself, it seems as if the crowd is studiously ignoring the table at the front of the room.

After shaking his head from side to side slowly, he pulls the hood off with one hand and grips the table with the other to stabilize himself. She notes that he is blinking as his eyes focus on the chaos around him and she can clearly see the questions in his mind in his expression.

Has he been hit over the head or drugged? Marie has only seen Douglas Richardson in passing; though she recognizes him now thanks to Mycroft’s intense (some would say nosy) background check on the man after his youngest brother left Baker Street arm in arm with him.

Marie can hardly believe the short amount of time that has passed since she picked up the little ginger captain at the airport and where they are all now. That thought gets tossed right out because there is too much that is unknown happening here and she does not want to get bogged down in the details and give herself away; at least not yet.

At least, she is fairly certain that they are all here. Mycroft only told his operatives that he is personally investigating the disappearances of his family—he never actually said this is where they are. For all their sakes, Marie hopes her hunch is right. In seeing Douglas, who is now helping take the black hood off of a similarly bleary-looking John Watson, it appears that her instincts are right on the money.

“You still playin’, miss?” The woman who has been playing dealer asks a bit louder than necessary. Marie shifts back against her chair, feeling for the body-warmed heat of her little gun against her spine where she tucked it before entering the room, hiding the motion behind scratching a fake itch.

Marie tears her eyes from Douglas and John, knowing that if John does see her, she can trust him to hold his peace. She gives the woman an embarrassed kind of grin, pretends to be caught out. “Yeah, I’m still playing.”

The woman passes out a fresh hand, still giving Marie the once over. “Nice looking bloke up there, eh?” She asks.

“Can’t say I disagree.” Marie answers quietly without specifying which one she means and wondering if she could just hold her gun for a while; it _is_ small enough to fit in her palm.

“Bit of a celebrity around these parts is the short one.” The dealer tidies up the rest of the stack. Their table has gone quiet, everyone hanging on her words. Marie stops worrying about her weapon for a few seconds.

“Can’t say for sure, but apparently tonight’s _entertainment_ is going to be better than the usual fare.” A horse-faced woman at the next table leans towards them and stage-whispers dramatically.

“Indeed.” Mutters Nasty Teeth.

Marie waits for them to say anything more on the topic but her luck runs out. Nasty Teeth takes another hand just as the lights in the room begin to dim.

*

The sight that greets Douglas as he removes the black hood baffles him. He remembers Renee stepping close and putting her hand on his arm and then nothing. How in the world did he manage to get into this crowd unaware? Douglas blinks a few times against the harsh light and drops the hood to the floor. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. A soft sound beside him draws his attention to the shorter man next to him who has also been similarly turned out. Douglas’s fingers make short work of the remaining tie and he pulls it away from John’s head.

“Fancy meeting you here.” He drawls softly as John’s blue eyes focus on his face.

“Huh. Think I could say the same.” John rubs his forehead where he and the guard connected so harshly some time ago. “What’s going on?”

“I honestly have no idea. Can you move?” Douglas asks.

John winces when he rolls his shoulders and mentally performs a swift once-over. Sore, but it does not seem anything is broken or in need of immediate attention. “I’m alright, you?”  

“Maybe we can get to the exit?” Douglas nods in the direction of the huge doors where an elderly man stands clad in a tuxedo. The white tuft of hair on top of his head is humorously out of place with his stiff stance and severe expression.

John looks over his shoulder, takes note of the old man and as he is turning back to Douglas, notices another familiar face. Marie allows their eyes to lock for a split second before moving hers away. “Mycroft is here.” He states under his breath.

Douglas starts to answer but before he does, a pair of Renee’s burly toadies step up beside them, one on either side. John says nothing but between the two of them there is an agreement to find the others as soon as possible. Or at least, that’s what Douglas takes from John’s wordless chin tilt. The lights around them begin to dim and the bubble of noise about the room suddenly silences.

John and Douglas find themselves staring at the floor ten feet in front of their table as what appears to be a giant platform begins to rise from the bowels of the house. Hydraulic lifts grind and a braking system squeals as what is now obviously a giant cage of the Victorian Zoo type settles against a now reformed floor with a bang.

 Another old door opens beside the cage and Renee steps out into a spotlight that seems to have mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, resplendent in a form-fitting dress of mint green and teal swirls with a line of tiny roses embroidered from the neck to her hip. Her stilettos are glossy black and her red hair is swept up into a neat bun held in place with a long gold pin.

The crowd around them goes absolutely ape shit, clapping and even wolf whistling at the woman. She raises her arms to signal quiet; the white spot-light above her catches on the gold bracelets that adorn her wrist. From where he sits, Douglas can make out colored stones set in the gold. A sudden ridiculous thought occurs to him and he turns back to John.

“The colors, John.” He whispers, unsure of himself for the first time in possibly ever.

“I see them.” John has not taken his eyes from the iron cage where he can see the vague shape of a human being slumped on the bottom. The warring parts of himself, doctor and solider, are both ill-at-ease in equal measures.  

Douglas swallows hard. This situation has just taken a left at bizarre and dropped down about thirteen thousand feet. He looks down at his clothes then over to John’s and their eyes meet again. John nods.

“I do believe we are a fucking _team_.” Douglas offers.

*

 As the cage lumbers to the surface, Marie stands up to get a better view. The petite firearm under her shirt shifts and she remembers not to lean too far over the table on the off chance anyone in the room is actually looking at anything else.

“My God.” She whispers, resting her palms against the table. Nasty Teeth leers at her and puts his fingers in his mouth to let loose a wolf whistle. Obviously he has been through this before. The woman in the wild swirly dress near the cage smiles broadly at everyone then raises her hands. Marie thinks there is something weirdly familiar about her but she does not dare stare too long.

Marie takes a chance to check out John and Douglas. Both men seem riveted to the spot. She will instinctively follow John’s lead because at this point she has nothing else; she settles back into her seat, only partially noticing that several young well-dressed men have appeared out of nowhere to collect the cards and poker chips from the tables. This has got to be the weirdest situation she has ever been in: all exits completely blocked and it is entirely plausible that she is not the only one armed.

*

“Mycroft we have to get out of here.” Sherlock states blandly as if it is a universal truth. He leans his head back against the cold wall, still slightly reeling and a bit shaky from the drug.

“Sherlock, I know this hard for you to believe,” Mycroft sighs dramatically. “I really am not Superman.”

Sherlock’s silence points out very loudly that he not only has no idea who Superman is but that Mycroft could move mountains if he so desired.

“I cannot move mountains, Sherlock. Blow them up, yes, but _move_ them, no.” Mycroft has returned to his bunk and the rusty springs of the mattress squeak as he shifts about. Speaking aloud is necessary since they cannot see one another, as annoying as it is.

Sherlock runs out of time to make another ear-splitting silent remark because a loud bang suddenly echoes through the cell block. Above them a loud grinding noise begins that reminds Sherlock of the sound of the pulleys moving the mirror in the room he was locked up in earlier. He slowly pushes himself up the wall, turning his face towards the ceiling, his green eyes blazing as if he could burn a hole through it.

Mycroft whistles lightly under his breath. “Ah.”

Sherlock frowns. “What do you know?” He asks between clenched teeth.

“I do not know anything.” Mycroft says.

“Well as much as that is one for the ages, I am not a fool, Mycroft.” Sherlock bites out.

“Glad you are feeling better, brother dear. You apologized to John, then?” Mycroft changes the subject as the door to the cell block opens to admit the other two bodyguards.

The big men cross to stand in front of the occupied cells. Sherlock eyes his escort, scanning him carefully and noting where the weapons are hidden about his person. He smiles when he comes to the big purple bruise on the man’s forehead as he knows _that_ particular wound well.

“On your feet.” Orders the man in front of Mycroft’s cell. The bed springs creak as Mycroft stands. Sherlock hears the distinct lack of a heel clicking against the cement floor; Mycroft is bare foot, too.

Bruised Forehead takes a keychain out of his pocket and passes it to his partner. Sherlock’s eyes track it like a housecat following a laser pointer. Calculating how many seconds it is going to take to unlock both cells, Sherlock drops his head and shoulders, allowing his body to slump against the wall as if he is still fighting the effects of the drug. The first key turns in the lock and the keys are passed back to Bruised Forehead. Sherlock counts to three then takes two steps towards the door where he grabs the surprised guard by the shoulders and uses his forward momentum to apply John’s head butt maneuver right to the guard’s face. The guard crumples and Sherlock shakes his head. He is vaguely aware of a grunt of pain when Mycroft takes down the other one.

“God that hurt.” When Sherlock opens his eyes it is to see his brother sitting atop the second guard’s back with the man’s arms pulled up behind him. Mycroft is twisting one of his wrists and the man’s eyes are tearing up from the pain.

“Give me the knife.” Mycroft says in a voice laced with frost. When the guard does not react, Mycroft tilts forward a little and grinds his knee into the man’s kidney, which in turn forces the bigger man’s groin against the very hard and very cold floor.

Sherlock starts to step forward but is stopped by the crocodile-on-the-hunt expression on his brother’s face. He turns his face away as Mycroft dislocates the man’s wrist and he howls with pain. “Right….right leg.”

“Good, you are a good boy.”  Mycroft purrs, but does not move. Sherlock takes the hint and raises the guard’s right trouser leg to find a slim dagger strapped to his calf; the detective makes quick work of the leather harness and hands the blade over to Mycroft.

Sherlock can and will use weapons when absolutely necessary, though he prefers to fight hand to hand.

Mycroft acknowledges this with a nod. “Go out the door and wait for me.” He uses the blade to point towards the door. Sherlock will delete the sensory memory of the gasp from the floor as Mycroft uses the knife on some soft part of the guard. Probably enough to hurt him badly but not enough to kill, he thinks. He will not ask.

In seconds, Mycroft is beside him, the dagger completely hidden away from prying eyes. Without speaking, they follow the tunnel as it rises slowly towards the muffled sound of a cheering crowd.

 


	22. Purple Haze

Martin’s heart is beating so hard it feels like it is going to jump out of his chest. He closes his eyes against the harsh white light trying to force its way into brain in an effort to block it out. Renee’s voice is loud and seems to circle around him and keep him rooted to where he fell when the cage was lifted from its hiding place. At first, Martin had no idea that he was being placed in a cage—if he is honest with himself he had no idea about much of anything at that point.

All he can recall vaguely is imagery of a fury like he had never known. Martin’s life has always been highs and lows, but never once has he ever been _angry_ about it. Hurt, sure. Disappointed? Absolutely. Maybe even a little insane sometimes, but never ever _angry_ : especially not angry at either of his long-lost siblings.

So where does that come from then? Is it his body’s reaction to the drugs he was given? Martin’s knowledge of chemistry is elementary at best, his knowledge of psychology even weaker. The only thing he is sure of is that if he gets out of here alive he’s going to need some serious down time. Maybe Douglas would like to have a bit of a holiday?

Renee’s voice has become background noise followed by the rumble of a crowd being worked up. Clapping, shouting and wolf whistles are clear to Martin where he lays scrunched up on the bottom of the cage. He is still wearing the shirt and trousers he was given before their weird dinner, though the clothing is a little worse for the wear. The collar is stained at his nape from sweat and the trousers are covered with dust from the cage; one knee is ripped.

The unseen crowd suddenly goes silent. Martin dares roll to his knees and peeks through the cage bars to see what is happening. For an instant he wonders what has become of Douglas? Surely if he escaped this nut house he would be bringing help?

Martin gasps as the spot light shifts over him. Renee has opened the door of the cage and is striding towards him, her hands outstretched as if showing off something brand new, perhaps a car or a particularly glamorous pet.

“Stand up, you fool.” She hisses at him; her bleached teeth practically vampiric between her ruby lips.  

Martin unfolds slowly and rises to his feet, never taking his eyes off her mouth. He can see nothing beyond the door but darkness, though he can hear the roar of the crowd. “What is happening?” Feeling like a six year old at a family reunion filled with strangers, he has to ask.  

“You are happening, littlest Holmes. You are happening.” Martin knows the lost expression on his face matches what he is feeling because Renee frowns at him. “Come here.” She gestures with one hand.

With nothing better to do, Martin placidly stands at her side; his entire bearing is one of obedience. She snakes her arm around his waist and uses the other one to click a button on the Bluetooth device hooked over her ear. The sound of her voice becomes a solid wall between them and whoever is out there watching all of this. It is a testament to how confused Martin is that he never even thinks about calling for help.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you the youngest member of the Holmes dynasty: Martin.” Applause fills the air but Martin’s full attention is on the mint green colored oblong pill in Renee’s fingers. She holds it up, presumably to show the crowd. “Martin is a good boy and takes his medicine.” Under her breath she says to him only, “Don’t make me look like a fool, boy. Take this now and there’s a chance you will get out of her alive.”

Martin’s eyes flash between Renee’s carnivorous smile and the pill. He swallows reflexively. At least he knows what happens when he takes the drug. Beyond the feeling of rage he quite clearly remembers feeling _strong_ : at least he will be able to face whatever happens next standing on his feet.

Martin does not flinch as his aunt’s fingers come closer to his face; he merely opens his mouth. The little green pill rests against his red tongue for a few seconds before he swallows it. Renee smiles at him and reaches up to run her hands through his curls. “It’s really too bad,” her voice booms about the cavernous arena, “It’s really too bad, because this one is absolutely adorable.” Laughter filters down to them as if it is leagues away.

She ruffles his hair one more time then pats him on the cheek, turning away and heading for the door. Renee stops and gives him another fake smile, holding her thumbs up at him and mouthing a silent ‘good luck’ as if she means it. The frying-egg sound of applause erupts from the crowd again.

Martin knows that she continues to talk, but the words are lost because as Renee moves away from the door, an enormous figure blocks it. Martin mumbles, “I thought the bodyguards were huge.” The man hears him and positively grins from ear to ear. His sun kissed skin glows under the white spot light and Martin is mesmerized as he watches a line of sweat drop to his bare, slab-of-beef sized shoulder from where the hairline would be if the man’s head was not shaved completely smooth. Unbelievably, his straining muscles actually shine; the only other thing he is wearing besides a tight pair of running shorts is body oil. Even if Martin manages to catch him, how will he ever hold on?

The man advances until he standing in the cage. The door is closed and locked; Martin can hear the click of tumblers falling into place. The giant holds his clasped hands high over his head and shakes them, though his cold coffee colored eyes never leave Captain Crieff’s face.

Martin begins to tremble.

*

John, Douglas, and Marie all shout “NO!” at the very same moment: when the giant of a man steps into the spotlight from the darkness beside Renee. John thinks that one of the giant’s thighs is as big around as he is across the shoulders; Marie eyes the broad chest and considers the tiny bullets in the tiny gun at her back; Douglas tells himself that what he is seeing is no dream and some gigantic mutant is about ready to smash his lover to bits. Right then and there he decides that if they get out of this alive—and they _will_ —he’s going to make Martin a very happy kept man, damn his pride.

Renee is still introducing the players in what is apparently the ‘main event’ the crowd around him has been whispering about: a bloody fight to the death in order to showcase some new drug. Her face is ecstatic as if she has some secret she can now share with the world. Douglas catches some movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to see that John is standing in his chair.

John steps up onto the table, as his bodyguard has disappeared into the crowd. Douglas’ arms are instantly pinned behind his back by the one beside him. His focus shrivels down to the heat of the strong hands holding him in one place so he lets his knees buckle and drops to the floor. They want a fight, he’s going to give what he’s got, if it were anyone else in trouble besides Martin, Douglas would do his best to smooth talk his way out of the situation; apparently that window of opportunity has already passed him by.

Renee’s toady is taken off guard as Douglas drops and he lets go in surprise, a move that turns out to be a big mistake because as much as Douglas abhors violence, he is a big man, too, and no rookie to bar fights. Douglas pops back up, pulls his arm back and throws a right hook at the guard, it lands square on his nose just as the whole place erupts. The satisfying crunching sound of breaking cartilage can still be heard over the noise.

During Douglas’ fight with the bodyguard, John leaps from the table rushing towards the cage, landing easily on the soles of his dress shoes and letting his knees bend. He is almost instantly caught from behind by one of the men from the crowd and the two of them crash to the floor in a kicking, punching heap.

Marie finds herself trapped on all four sides by the crowd. Nasty Teeth is the immediate problem and since all hell is breaking loose, she hauls back and decks him simply because he is there. He falls and she never looks back, grabbing for her weapon as she plows through the crowd. People are on their feet cheering all three fights, only a few of them have joined in; they way they are enjoying themselves makes Marie think this is some kind of regular experience.

Marie throws all caution to the four winds as she aims her gun with one hand and pulls her ear piece out of her pocket with the other. She simultaneously turns it on and places it where it belongs. It takes a single heartbeat before Anthea is calling out to her; Marie does not answer, letting the chorus of racket around her tell the story. The crowd parts before her as she makes her way towards the cage.

“We will get you out. Stay alive until then.” Then there is nothing but the disjointed sounds of a team mobilizing. Marie has high hopes they can get there before too much damage occurs.

Marie watches John knock out the man he is wrestling with; in no time at all he is up and moving towards the cage, calling out Martin’s name. Renee has disappeared, but she is the least of Marie’s worries; like John, right now her biggest concern is the giant ape advancing on Martin. There is no doubt in her mind that the big man’s entire agenda is to make a ginger pudding out of the captain. As part of Mycroft’s team, it is her job to look after his familial obligations, and right now that description is narrowed down to Martin.

*

Martin ducks just as a meteorite of a fist is heading in his direction. Of course it turns out to be a mistake because the giant merely uses the dodge as an excuse to grab one of Martin’s ankles and hoist him into the air. Unluckily, it just so happens to be the ankle that has been sprained several times and the pain is excruciating. He dangles there upside down, first hearing the muffled sounds of the crowd around him and then his own blood rushing towards his head.

Martin listens to his heartbeat that turns into a marching beat, drums being beaten by little boys as they follow the soldiers into the killing field…all pain is erased and a primal scream is ripped from his burning lungs as the world around him goes dark and then very, very bright. In a maneuver he will never remember, Martin doubles up and grabs the giant’s massive forearm then leans up and bites the living hell out of it as his hands claw for purchase against the body oil.

The giant snarls and shakes Martin as he locks his jaw bulldog fashion and hangs on for the ride. Dislodged by the sheer force of the man’s flailing, Martin lets go completely and flies across the cage, his entire body smashing against the bars on the opposite side. Somehow he shakes it off and lands on his feet to face the giant, whose arm is now painted with streaks of blood.

Martin is no longer Martin, the drugs whisper to him: he is more. He is anger. All the failed CPL tests, the failed romantic interactions, his failings as a brother…everything begins to add up to the tension in his body and his mind begins to beg for a reaction.

The giant grabs Martin around the neck and Martin scrappily claws at his bare chest. He fights and twists until one foot makes contact against the man’s sternum. The big man grunts and slaps Martin with his other hand. Martin reels from the blow for a few seconds and then he is flying without engines, without wings, calm in the center of a uncontrolled storm, then…SLAM!

This time Martin does not stand right back up but sits against the bars because his mind has been turned into a tornado. He does not have too much time to spend thinking about it because the giant’s fist is making contact against Martin’s jaw.

That hurt. A prism’s rainbow of colors swirls through Martin’s mind and his head is forced backwards. “Fuck!” He spits a stream of blood into the floor. He blinks back tears and fights the dizzy sensation. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other fist closing in…

Time grinds to a halt. Martin ducks the next swing and finds himself standing outside his body seeing his own pale fist smash into the giant’s eye socket and then he is returned to his adrenalin fueled, drug enhanced self. Martin pushes off the floor and brings the big man down by wrapping his arms around the broad waist; he starts to slip but manages to hold on, his neatly-trimmed fingernails leaving scarlet tracks against the giant’s oil-slicked, tanned skin. When they slam together it is like running head first into a brick wall: Martin is reeling again but completely unable to stop what he has started.

By some strange twist of fate, when the fighters land, Martin sprawled on top of the behemoth. He quickly straddles the man without thinking twice and his neat fists fly about the giant’s chest. The giant grabs one of Martin’s hands and holds it just as the drug dissolves completely in Martin’s system and the slide show of horrific images from earlier begins to play in his head. He begins pounding on the man’s face and chest, no longer aware of anything else around them but the desire to make the giant pay for every single terrible, unlucky, dreadful thing that has ever happened to him.

*

Sherlock stops outside the doors to the basement. The brothers can hear the raucous sound of a huge crowd from where they stand. Sherlock tilts his head towards Mycroft, asking him with an eyebrow lift if they are going in together.

Mycroft files this newer version of his brother away for later perusal; the idea of Sherlock following someone else’s lead into a volatile situation is quite a novel one indeed. Rather than push the issue, Mycroft takes advantage of it and his own experience and gives his brother a small nod.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock starts. Mycroft purses his lips together and his blue eyes flash in warning.

“Tell me when we are home. All of us.” He says in a stern stage whisper.

Sherlock nods again. Together they push open the doors and wade into a virtual hell of sound and color, the tails of Sherlock’s un-tucked shirt flying out behind him like the banner of an advancing army as the doors swing inward.

*

 Marie catches up with John as he is fighting with the padlock hanging on the cage door. After a short time he realizes that he does not have anything to pick it with nor cut it off the door. He can hear the muffled cries and thumps as the giant is slowly making mincemeat of Martin and it is kicking his protective instincts into overdrive. John stares through the bars, making all the noise he can in order to get the giant’s attention away from the captain.

Of course that is all before Martin howls like a wolf and launches himself at the obviously trained fighter. Renee appears at John’s side like there is no life or death struggle happening right in front of them.

“Dear John, what must you think of me?” Renee croons into John’s ear.

John snarls and grabs her by the shoulders. His eyes are cold blue chips of ice. “Let him out.”

Renee laughs like a hyena. “And then what? Loose everything I have riding on him? You really don’t think the upkeep on this place is _free_ do you?” She winks at him.

John pulls his hand back, seriously going to slap her, when it is caught by Marie. “John, no.” Marie pulls him off of the older woman and steps between them, knowing that if John kills her right now, they will never find out what all of this was about. She holds her gun up to Renee’s temple and says very calmly, “Tell us how to get him out or I end you.” Marie clicks the safety back to prove she is not joking.

Renee stares Marie down, never flinching, and keeping her mouth tightly shut. Marie does not know that Renee is waiting for her flunkies to return, neither of them are aware that two of them have been taken down by Sherlock and Mycroft.

At the very second Marie is seriously considering wasting the civilian, a man yells from the galley. Marie turns her head towards the noise, Renee knocks the gun from Marie’s hand and hightails it across the room towards the closest exit. Marie ignores the cry and chases down her quarry. She brings Renee to the floor, hard and holds her there with a knee in the older woman’s back.

“Lady, I don’t know who you are but you better start talking.” Marie leans down and whispers into Renee’s ear. “I don’t need a gun to kill you.” Fully expected to be bucked off or a fight of some sort, Marie is surprised when Renee does nothing at all except to put her face against the floor and begin to cry softly.

Marie looks up to see whether John is having any luck, but he is no longer looking at her but at the bruised and battered bodyguard in front of him with a much larger gun than Marie’s pointing directly into John’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost at the end, dear readers! My goal for this piece was 25 chapters and we are nearing that now. I want to thank you all for hanging in there with me! I have received *so much more* response to this story than I ever expected when I first outlined it. Thank you and hold tight to your seats, the conclusion will be up in a couple of days. Again, I thank you!!


	23. Wrap Up

John stares over the bodyguard’s shoulder. The man with the gun mistakes it as fear, but he is really watching as a barefooted, only mostly dressed Sherlock Holmes is rushing up behind him. John controls his expression, not giving anything away. Then Sherlock is there, raises broad hand and making a swift chop to the side of the armed man’s throat. The man starts to look back at his assailant and fall at the same time; John takes advantage and grabs the gun. John stares at the weapon in his hand, easily spins it around and bashes the guard upside the jaw with the butt of the gun.

A mere ten seconds have passed. John and Sherlock find themselves staring into each other’s eyes over yet another body; this one, however, is still breathing, just knocked out.

“There’s still three more of them.” John says, his mind now split between his partner and Martin. From behind him a wild snarl and a string of oaths that would make a merchant marine beg for forgiveness carry over the sound of the crowd. The slowly dying sounds of the crowd. John’s head whips back and forth between the cage and where the crowd had been moments before.

As always, even still somewhat muddled from Renee’s drugs, Sherlock is speedy on the uptake. “Mycroft’s people.”

John shakes his head then calls out to Marie, “Your team has arrived.” She simply remains where she is, keeping Renee down and out of the way.

A blubbery, wet sob is now coming from the cage. Douglas rushes up, wiping bloodied knuckles on his trousers. “What’s happening in there?”

When the three of them can finally let their collective guard down enough to take in what is happening, two of them can hardly believe their eyes.

Martin Crieff is huddled up against the bars of the cage directly in front of them, his arms around his knees and his neck bowed, crying. John takes in the rocking form, firmly tells the others to step back, looks down at the gun still clutched in his fingers and takes aim at the padlock on the door. He pulls the trigger and the lock explodes. It takes three seconds before John and Douglas are at Martin’s side while Sherlock is pacing around the moaning giant.

Martin’s words are soft, wraithlike. “I killed him.” Tears are running down his blood-stained face and when he looks up, he is millions of miles away.

John gently takes Martin’s hand and takes his pulse. Douglas settles down beside Martin and wraps an arm around his waist where he can feel the captain’s fast, huffy respirations. He looks up to John.

“He is still coming down from the drug.” Sherlock states plainly, sitting down at Martin’s other side, not quite touching him but not crowding him, either. “Talk to him.”

Douglas does not need to be told twice. “Martin, you did a great job. You kept fighting and gave us time to get to you.” He looks up to where both John and Sherlock are watching. John shakes his head, urging him to go on.

Martin’s eyes are still fixed on some far distant point. “Sherlock, I don’t think I can do this.” Douglas lays a hand across his mouth, trying to hide his weakness, an idiotic move no less but Sherlock does not call him out on it.

“You can, Douglas. He needs to know you are here.” Sherlock tells him. “John, I need to go and secure whatever is left of Renee’s designer drug for Mycroft’s team.”

As an answer, John stands and follows Sherlock out of the cage. He pulls the gun from the waistband of his trousers where he stashed it after blowing the padlock off the door and offers it to Sherlock. Sherlock raises a hand to John’s face and reels him in for a half-way decent kiss. When they break apart, John steals a second to briefly lay his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock curls his palm around the back of John’s head.

“I’ve missed you.” John says.

And Sherlock understands that John does not just mean for the past few hours, but for the three months he was off on his ridiculous walkabout, and for the time they were separated before that…

“Shhh. Let’s get this over with.”

John agrees. With one more press of their lips, John returns to his patient and Sherlock slips into the darkness. John is pretty sure he hears Mycroft’s voice echoing through the now virtually empty room and for reasons he refuses to consider too deeply, feels completely safe in the middle of this madhouse. There are times when it is good not to have to be the one in charge, and this is one of them.

*

Douglas watches Sherlock and John exit the cage and tightens his hold on Martin. He gently wipes away the free-flowing tears then pulls the captain in tighter against his chest. A strange mix of helplessness and being needed curls around in his soul.  

“Martin, I’m here. With you. You’ve got to give me something to go on so I know what to say.” Douglas prattles on; running his fingers through Martin’s disheveled curls, gently tugging loose a knot here and there. Martin begins to relax against him, his eyes still open and staring. “Martin, you did a great job.” Douglas pauses, hopes that his words are sinking in.

“They are taking Renee now, Douglas. The ambulance is on its way.” John tells him. He kneels down to see that Martin seems to be physically ok. He jerks a thumb in the direction of the giant. “Mostly, I’m not sure what to do about him.”

Douglas nods, truly uncaring after what the beast has done to Martin, even if the captain did get the best of him in the end. He wraps his arm around Martin’s shoulders and holds him there; adjusting so that he is sure Martin can hear his heartbeat.

John nods appreciatively. “That’s good, Douglas.” A wistful expression crosses his face as he lowers himself to the floor beside them. “When Sherlock first came home after playing dead, sometimes he would have nightmares.”

Douglas does not need John to spell it out for him; he understands. Under his hands, Martin’s breathing has evened out. For all anyone knows, at this moment he could simply be asleep instead of fighting the aftereffects of both the drugs and the shock. “I don’t know what else to do.” Douglas says.

“I know. I never did either.” John tells him truthfully as shrill sirens break the tentative silence of the arena.

In seconds, the place is filled with law enforcement and people John knows to be Mycroft’s team. It all seems a bit unreal and anticlimactic as handcuffs are slapped on Renee and the bodyguard that was going to shoot John. The man is coming around as he is lead in the direction of the double doors. Marie stops by for a few seconds before following the team. John finds himself somewhat detached and uncaring as a pair of burly paramedics bundle the giant onto a stretcher and trundle him out of the cage.

Martin is still practically unconscious when he is lifted onto his own stretcher. Douglas stays by his side the entire ride to the hospital. John and Sherlock catch a lift with a constable named Robert, following swiftly in the wake of the ambulance.

*

Martin is floating on his back in a lake beneath a pristine blue sky, somewhere warm. Mountains circle the lake as if holding it peacefully. He remembers being angry about something important but the mild breeze and the smell of water comfort him in the way his mother’s arms did as a child. Martin stretches his legs and the warm water laps at his toes. The small raft under him gives a little as he moves. He studies the sky and reaches for the drink sitting in the open space on the little raft; Martin sips the sweet cocktail through a straw; he is faintly amused to see it is in a coconut. He rests his head back against the raft and watches as a bunch of birds flying in the sky. There seems to be so many of them.

It is true; there are falcons and seagulls, a huge golden eagle and a flock of tiny birds that Martin can barely see. Their squawks, peeps and cries and the rock of the water beneath him lull him into slumber. The sun is high and not so warm that it will burn his freckly skin. This is a good thing, sleep.

Because when he wakes up…

Memories assault Martin from all sides: the giant attacking him with a twisted smile on his wide mouth; his aunt laughing as she held up the pill; his failure at fighting the drug. And then he is back there, straddling a huge man and beating his face into a pulp with his hands that have never been used for violence before...never in all his thirty-five years, never has he attacked anyone. He most certainly has had provocation, oh yes, but always, always, he could walk away.

And he hears the heartbeat. Faint at first, then louder; darkness covers him, and he could hide here. Forever. A shroud that would protect him from reliving these memories…thump, thump, thump. It is warm here, his belly is not empty, and no one is telling him that _he cannot be the captain, you must be joking_ …but then Douglas is not here.

Douglas.  

_I need to go back, I can face the music._

Martin blinks back into awareness.

“Douglas?”


	24. Aftermath

John is ninety-seven point three percent positive he has never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable as he does in this moment: leaning against the door of his youngest brother’s hospital room in clothing just a little different from his usual style. The sleeves on the now battered scarlet button-down are rolled up past his elbows, his pale skin made even paler by the greenish-yellow lights on the ceiling; a low hum emanating from them can clearly be heard as the doctor regards his partner-in-everything. Sometime between going back into the bowels of the huge house for the drugs and riding here in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars, Sherlock has regained his shoes. They are still clean, incongruously polished and impeccable even as the man himself is worn down to the bone.

Somewhere down the hall is the remote click of heels against tile and a clock chimes the half hour. Random hospital sounds surround them; John is as familiar with the sights and smells of the corridor as he is with his own home. It is both comforting and repellent, as are all places splashed with paint that he calls ‘institutional white’ in his head.

“John.” Sherlock mutters. There’s a cut on the side of his mouth; he swipes the tip of his tongue over it then grunts softly as it stings. His eyes are half-closed, his arms crossed over his chest. There are several red spots on his forearms that will most certainly purple up nicely in the near future. Sherlock tilts his chin up so that the back of his head is resting against the opaque window in the door. His mane is a hot mess of curls and knots; part of it is flat against one side of his head where he leaned against John’s shoulder on the ride over. John thinks he looks good enough to eat, dirt, dried sweat and all.

“Sherlock.” John answers and steps forward to be closer to his favorite detective in the whole world. He cups the side of Sherlock’s face firmly; Sherlock’s eyes open and he turns to study John’s face.

These are some of Sherlock’s favorite times between them: when John is completely the only thing in his line of sight, all he can see, all he can hear, and all he can feel. Being overwhelmed with John Watson is just as good as being overwhelmed with…other things ever was. Mostly it is better.

John has the intuitive ability to read everything Sherlock is feeling right now: pain, fear, love, and maybe even a bit of guilt. “Sherlock, this is not your fault. None of this.” John points to the room where Martin is sleeping behind them. “Is your fault.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John stops it by pushing up on his tiptoes and kissing him. It is just as soft and chaste as the first time their lips ever touched and it gives them both a little strength, a little grounding. Sherlock’s broad palms gravitate to John’s hips, his fingers curl into John’s belt loops in order to pull him closer.

When the door opens, they almost fall into the room, saved only by Mycroft putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and in this way balancing both men as they compose themselves. They shift apart, John into the room to greet Douglas where he sits next to Martin’s bed, but Sherlock does not move. The two eldest Holmes siblings size each other up. John looks over his shoulder and waits for the snarky comments, the blame, the explosion…

…that never materializes.

Instead, and to the amazement of John, Douglas and a blinking Martin who has this second opened clear green eyes, Sherlock grabs Mycroft and hauls him in for an honest-to-goodness bear hug.

“Sherlock?” Martin squeaks from the bed. Sherlock looks up at him from where his head is resting on Mycroft’s shoulder; Mycroft turns fully in order to do the same. John sees tears in both emerald and sapphire eyes. One day John will hog tie his partner to the nearest piece of furniture and _make_ him tell the story of what happened while he was playing dead, but until that day, John will happily accept the heart-warming surprises as they come.

On the other side of the room, Douglas gasps then hides it under a short hum. He is moving to sit next to Martin before Martin’s brain registers that he is there, making a short ‘hello’ in John’s direction. Suddenly, Douglas has his arms full of Captain Crieff, who is reciprocating and trying to watch his big brothers at the same time. John decides that halfway is best and takes the seat Douglas has just vacated.

*

Several scans, a lecture from a physician and five hours later the five of them are back at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock is in the kitchen fiddling about with his microscope at the table; John and Douglas are camped out on the sofa watching television, Mycroft is downstairs talking with Mrs. Hudson and Martin is on his phone with a very, very irate airdot CEO.

“Mar-ten Crieff! How dare you do a disappearing act on me! You are that good-for-nothing swanky smuggling First Officer of mine owes me an apology! Poor Arthur has been worried sick about you two for _days_! We have seen the reports on the telly, Martin! Reports!”

Martin sheepishly looks about the room as he holds the phone away from his ear. When Carolyn is worked up, speakerphone is redundant. “BOMBS! Martin, BOMBS! What have you two been doing? In the meantime, Hercules has been _forced_ into flying and you know he is just _repulsive_ ….”

“Carolyn, I…” Martin tries.

“Don’t you open your mouth, Martin, until you start giving me some answers!” There’s a slight pause. “Well, stupid boy, that is your chance, go ahead, fill me in.”

Martin gulps. The last few days have been a rollercoaster ride and he is still dealing with the extreme ends of the emotional teeter-totter. “Carolyn, um. Well, you see, my brother, Sherlock is…”

“WHAT!? Are you telling me that this cockamamie story Arthur gave me about this _detective_ chap who shows up on the television…”

Martin narrows his eyes at Douglas, who shrugs. _What did you tell her_? He mouths silently. Douglas arches an eyebrow in Martin’s direction as he recalls Douglas mentioning something about having Carolyn pack a bag for him before Douglas arrived at the hotel in London.

“Carolyn.” Finally, Martin finds his authoritative voice. Douglas barks out a chuckle and John grins. A very obnoxious snort can be heard from the kitchen.

Martin sighs and tries again. “Carolyn, Douglas said you packed a bag for me…”

She is on a roll now, though. “I did. I did pack a bag for you and I’ll have you know that had I know that _hovel_ you were staying in was as bad as all that, I probably would have let you move…” Carolyn stops herself. “Nevermind. No, Arthur you cannot talk now!”

Martin can see a vision of Arthur grabbing for his mom’s phone and shakes his head. He takes a breath, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, good, Carolyn, right. How…, I mean, what did Douglas tell you I needed the bag for?” He holds the phone out so they can all see him hit the ‘speaker’ button.

Carolyn thinks for a moment. At least now she is using a normal ‘inside voice’ and not the shrill, angry banshee sound. “Douglas said you needed a short holiday to take care of some family business that came up suddenly.”

“Right.” Martin urges, ignoring the pleased expression plastered on the first officer’s face. Because he can, Martin childishly sticks his tongue out at Douglas.

Carolyn continues, “He said you two were staying in a hotel room in London…Oh God. Don’t tell me. Did you two finally, oh, what is the word?” In the background everyone in the room can hear Arthur shouting, ‘hook up!’

Martin is frankly amazed with how quickly Carolyn got from Point A to Point B. Knowing her, she probably saved a wad of cash in the process. Douglas starts laughing.

“Oh god. That just confirmed it. I don’t want to hear any sick romantic stories about the two of you running off to Paris or wherever and….” Carolyn stops again, presumably to collect herself.

“You know what, I. Don’t. Care. I do care, however, when you are coming home so that I can get GERTI back into the air!”

Martin blanches a little which causes the bruises on his cheek to stand out. Douglas rolls his eyes and reaches out for the phone, but a long hand is already plucking it out of the air.

“Ah! You must be Ms. Knapp-Shappey. Let me introduce myself, I am Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft’s silky voice instantly ceases anything coming out of Carolyn’s mouth. There’s a bang from the kitchen, then a scuffling of bare feet on linoleum and Sherlock is dropping practically into John’s lap, long limbs and knobby joints going everywhere.

Mycroft steps away from the sofa practically purring into the phone. “I do believe you and I spoke a few days ago.”

Silence on the other end. Very, very loud silence that Mycroft happily fills. “Yes, it seems that you do remember me. I chartered your airline to fly out and pick up Doctor Watson, did I not.”

“Yes, you did.” Even Martin hears the left off _sir_ at the end of that sentence.

“That is wonderful. I have ever intention of lining up _several_ other classified flights similar to that one, however, I refuse to use any airline where I feel the pilots are overworked and _underpaid_.”

Martin’s eyes are now so wide Douglas is afraid they are going to roll back into the captain’s head. He reaches over and pulls Martin closer to him. Martin slides down enough so that his head rests on Douglas’ shoulder. Sherlock has to move his legs to give them all space and oddly ends up dropping his feet onto Martin’s legs.

Douglas thinks the whole thing is ridiculous, but it is so much like being at home with all his brothers when he was younger that he really has no complaints. In the meantime, Mycroft sure is putting on a show. Douglas wishes he had a bowl of popcorn.

“I must say that our Captain Crieff needs a few more days of holiday, Ms. Knapp-Shappey, if you can spare him? And since his convalescence from the stress brought on by almost being blown up, then kidnapped, drugged and beaten most assuredly would occur in a timelier manner with his First Officer at his side, would you honestly be the one who would desire to begrudge him what he so obviously needs?”

Douglas now wishes he could be recording the look on Carolyn’s face. He could play it back anytime they needed a laugh. As it is, he is burying his face into the back of Martin’s head in order to stifle himself.

Martin has his neck bowed so that Douglas’ breaths are tickling the nape of his neck. His face has gone from pink and blushing beet red, setting off the orangey chestnut of his hair.

Everyone but Sherlock watches Mycroft pace back and forth with the phone cradled in his hand. Sherlock is pretending to check the backs of his eyelids for pinholes as he slowly drags the back of his up-tilted head across the chest of John’s tan jumper. One of John’s hands is resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other on his own thigh. John knows the whole thing is Sherlock trying to pull all John’s attention back to him; John also knows ignoring Sherlock for any amount of time makes him absolutely ravenous for physical affection later.

John is not a stupid man.

Mycroft thumbs the ‘end’ button and hands the phone back to Martin with a smirk. Without another word, he picks up the umbrella he left by the door and vanishes down the steps.

Martin is left once again with his mouth hanging wide open. He turns towards Sherlock who is still pretending to be completely unaware of what has been happening and just touches the end of Sherlock’s nose with his fingertip. Sherlock opens his eyes, trying hard to stare Martin down. Martin misses the part where he is supposed to be intimidated because he is giggling.

And just like that, they are right back to the night before the whole crazy debacle. The rest of the night is filled with real laughter, Sherlock making fun of John’s DVD collection, tea, popcorn and scones. Eventually, John and Sherlock drift away to Sherlock’s bedroom. Martin and Douglas follow soon after, making themselves comfortable in John’s old room.

*

John’s sense of time has been completely skewed over the past few days. His brain is exhausted but when he steps out of the bathroom to acres and acres of naked sleuth lying on his belly in the center of the bed, most of John’s mind hangs up a ‘closed’ sign and checks out for a bit. All it takes to get Sherlock purring with desire is to run his palm down his long spine. John watches goose bumps well up as Sherlock arches into John’s touch. He cannot resist grabbing two handfuls of posh detective bum and yanking said detective’s hips upward so that he is able to roll his hips, and his instantly aching erection, against that luscious ass. Sherlock mutters ‘please’ in his guaranteed-to-drive-John-crazy deep voice of pure sex and John loses what was left of his mind a little while ago.

By the time their orgasms hit them like freight trains, Sherlock is a mushy bundle of post-coital bliss and John’s body is practically humming. They finally fall into a deep slumber, John on his back and Sherlock using him as a body pillow, his curly head resting against John’s chest. John thinks that there is nowhere else he would rather be as he strokes the back of Sherlock’s neck with a feather-light touch, causing Sherlock to push against him as if attempting to get impossibly closer.

*

Douglas watches Martin as the younger man slowly undresses. He moves stiffly, muscles and joints sore from the cage fight. Douglas is so proud of his captain, it feels like his chest cannot possible expand any further or he will pop at the seams. He has already run through his nightly routine and is resting on one elbow against a pillow propped against the headboard. The bedside lamp beside him is on and it casts a golden triangle of light across the white duvet.

Martin starts to lift the duvet and Douglas does it for him instead, using one hand to hold it open and the other to reel Martin in close to him. Martin is easy enough to move around so that it is only seconds before Douglas has him completely enfolded in his arms, Martin’s back against Douglas’ chest.

“I am so proud of you.” Douglas whispers into Martin’s ear. He worries the lobe with his teeth, enjoying the way little shocks of pleasure begin to coil at the base of his spine as Martin squirms against him. Douglas knows Martin is simply too exhausted to go any further tonight. He partially rolls over and snaps out the light then returns to his former position.

“I love you.” Douglas states firmly as he presses soft kisses to Martin’s bare shoulder.

Martin sighs deeply once before he is sound asleep in Douglas’ arms as the first officer considers the life that Sherlock and John lead. Douglas much prefers the kind of excitement that comes from exploring a new city, a new restaurant or learning all of the secrets Martin’s body holds. A few more days, and he knows they will both be ready to return home, to this new life they will now share between them.


	25. Answers

“Pre-flight checks completed, Captain.” Douglas says as he ducks into the cockpit. He gives Martin a pat on the shoulder and basks in the smile that is turned up in his direction. He settles into his chair and picks up his headset as Martin radios the tower. They are cleared for takeoff.

Martin guides the bossy old plane into the air and for a few moments both men simply enjoy the feel of flying, each remembering why he got into this business in the first place.

*

In the past two weeks, Martin’s life has changed radically, in a large part thanks to Mycroft. On the day he and Douglas returned to work, they were delighted to discover that a constant backlog of flights scheduled by the eldest Holmes brother will keep MJN out of the red; and for the first time, Carolyn is able to offer Martin a reasonable salary. Martin breaks down in tears and hugs Carolyn who sputters some baloney for a few seconds before returning it.

“Douglas.” She says sternly, stepping away from Martin but not quite letting him go.

Douglas walks over to where they stand in front of Carolyn’s desk in the portakabin. He strolls, carefully carrying his tea and looking very much like a man out for a walk in the park.

“Yes Carolyn.” He draws, giving Martin a wink. Martin blushes, naturally, and Carolyn tightens her hold on his trim waist.

“Lean down here.” She orders.

Douglas complies and is gobsmacked when Carolyn kisses him on one cheek and slaps the other one. “What was all that for?” He asks, rubbing at the burning spot on his smooth face.

“The kiss was to thank you for bringing Martin home in one piece.” Carolyn tells him simply. “The slap is a warning because if you hurt my _other son_ here, I will brain you.” With that, she gives Martin another squeeze, turns on her heels and marches out. The door swings shut behind her with a dramatic _bang_.

Douglas does not know whether to laugh or be offended. “I had no idea you were her favorite pilot, even after her always telling me I was the _good_ one _.”_ He quips.

Martin sputters and his fingers worry the hem on his crisp new uniform shirt. “I had no idea!”

*

They are now flying smoothly. Martin relaxes his hold on the yoke and turns to Douglas, noting how the first officer seems to be daydreaming as he gazes out the windscreen.

“Douglas, I heard from Mycroft this morning.”

“Ah, you did. Why didn’t you say anything?” Douglas’ attention is now fully on the captain.

Martin’s blush is answer enough. “Well…”

“No, no, that’s fine Martin.” Douglas laughs. He pats the captain’s knee and Martin cracks a smile.

“Well, anyway.” He grins. “He called to let us know that John and Sherlock are now engaged.”

Douglas laughs again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. It’s good, though, really.”

“Good for them, Martin. John is a good man.” Douglas says.

“Yeah. Yes he is. Sherlock has changed so much, Douglas.”

Douglas nods. “I’m sure he has. You most certainly have.”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Martin.” A companionable silence falls between them. “Did he say anything about your aunt and all of that…” Douglas waves his hand around in the air between them.

“He did. Apparently, the woman is completely off her rockers.”

Douglas suppresses a childish _duh._

Martin continues. “Back in the day, she and Mycroft and Sherlock’s mom, Rose, were in a stiff competition for the attention of George Holmes.”

“Mycroft’s father?” Douglas asks.

“Yes. Apparently, Rose won and Renee was shafted. She told Mycroft that she has been obsessively building that house for close to thirty years. Her ‘entertainment’ is quite the talk of the underworld from London to Madrid.”

“Good God.” Douglas performs a quick scan of the controls.

“Those fights are now linked with at least seven deaths over the past ten years. That information came from Sherlock, you know he’s been texting me at least once a day since we left.” Martin’s eyes are soft when he looks at Douglas this time.

“So, all of that was what? Revenge over a man? That’s ghastly.” Douglas smiles broadly at the captain.

“I’m sure there’s more to it, but Mycroft said he would tell me more the next time we all get together. I have to tell you that I suggested maybe flying everyone someplace for their engagement party.”

“John’s throwing an engagement party?” The first officer queries.

Martin laughs. “Oh no, Mycroft is throwing it. Sherlock says he will have to kidnap both of them in order to have it, and well, they can’t exactly _leave_ if we are in the air, and…”

Douglas is chuckling. “What a wonderful idea, captain.”

“What’s a wonderful idea?” Arthur asks as he steps into the flight deck, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.

The pilots accept their hot drinks and proceed to fill Arthur in on most of the details from their short holiday. Arthur is at times curious, elated, scared and then very impressed. They spend the rest of the flight to Madrid being quizzed every way from Sunday.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever CP fic and I'd love to hear what you think :D  
> And since I believe the fandom needs more fics--I will happily entertain prompts, especially Douglas/Martin stories. Send 'em in!


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